


Settling In

by 221bBakerStreet221b



Series: Little Brothers Mine [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Age Regression/De-Aging, Bed-Wetting, Comfort/Angst, Diapers, Genderfluid Character, Groping, M/M, Making Out, Omorashi, Pacifiers, S4:E3 Spoilers, Sherlock Series 4 Spoilers, Sickfic, Swearing, Thumb-sucking, Wetting, mutual masturbation (chapter 14), pull-ups, sex (referenced)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-01-15 17:08:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 64,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12325272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221bBakerStreet221b/pseuds/221bBakerStreet221b
Summary: John and Sherlock find themselves struggling to keep up with the fast-paced nature of adulthood when they return to crime solving after spending a weekend being little with Daddy Mycroft and Papa Greg.  Luckily, after some stubbornness on the parts of both boys, Mycroft and Greg manage to get them back to Mycroft's place, where they settle into the new home he has worked to create for them.  But when John begins struggling to express himself in a new way while in headspace, he unconsciously creates a potentially dangerous situation for Sherlock.





	1. Crime Scene Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> Hi lovelies!
> 
> I had no idea I'd be starting a new story in this series so soon after finishing up "Weekend at the Lake," but this idea grasped onto me and I just couldn't keep away. 
> 
> This story takes place after the events of "Weekend at the Lake." If you're new to the series (Welcome!), feel free to go back to read the previous stories or to just dive in with this story. The basic premise is that Sherlock and John (who are in a relationship) are ageplayers and Mycroft and Greg (who are also in a relationship) are their caretakers. 
> 
> Fair warning that I have not had time to do much editing to this chapter, so I will more than likely come back later tonight to clean a few things up and add a few more tags. That said, I wanted to get it posted before I had to go about my day!
> 
> Enjoy :)

John Watson was currently huddled beneath the blanket on his bed, trying not to suck his thumb. His thoughts continuously wandered to the stuffed rabbit and baby blanket tucked away in the closet, beside the suitcase he still hadn’t unpacked from his weekend away. He turned over and stuck his hands beneath the pillow. He didn’t need to go little, couldn’t slip down in age despite the nagging voice in the back of his mind begging him to do just that. 

It had been a tough afternoon--a tough stretch of days, actually. He and Sherlock were on their first case since returning from their weekend vacation at the lake with Mycroft and Greg, and they’d been going non-stop for entire days, shoved back into the fast-paced nature of investigation without much of a preamble. Triple homicides generally meant serial killer, and three different crime scenes definitely meant numerous leads deduced by Sherlock and in need of tracing. 

They’d been working so many long hours that neither of them had much time to consider the stark contrast between their current activities and those of the past weekend. They hadn’t paused long enough to realize they’d been neglectful in terms of taking care of themselves--barely sleeping, keeping extremely late hours, eating only fast-food and unhealthy takeaway when they could even be bothered to eat. Even if John did feel, in the early morning hours as visions of gruesome deaths remained on the inside of his eyelids when he tried to sleep, that things were not quite right, or that maybe it was too much too soon, he did not have the time or energy to acknowledge the feelings. 

No, John didn’t need to be Bunny right now. Sherlock was immediately back to his sharp-witted and pompous adult self, already three steps ahead of everyone around him. Greg had put aside his paternal instincts as he worked to solve the case, under pressure from higher-ups to bring in a suspect and put the public at ease. They hadn’t heard from Mycroft in days; they knew he was involved in his own tasks and governmental crises. If the others were fine to transition immediately back into their productive, task-oriented selves, John had to be fine as well. 

He should get out of bed, update the blog, look for more leads. He certainly shouldn’t be toying with the idea of curling up with a blanket and a sippy cup, and--what he desperately wanted more than anything--a pull-up to watch a Disney movie.

But that day had been busier than even the others before, and John had found himself in the backseat of Greg’s police cruiser late in the afternoon, tired and hungry and catching his breath after the pace Sherlock had made them keep all day. He was grateful for the moment to gather his thoughts and process, but he was also immediately made aware of the weight in his bladder, and he could not help but bend forward at the waist, suddenly desperate. 

Sherlock and Greg, in the front seats, were discussing the logistics of the case, talking through details John had not even known were being considered within the parameters of the murders. He allowed himself to lose focus for a moment, needing an escape from the details and a moment to quiet his mind. He leaned back against the headrest and reached to give himself a quick squeeze between the legs, grateful they were on their way back to the precinct, where he could piss and potentially find something to eat from a vending machine before being at Sherlock’s beck and call once more. 

“All right there, John?” Greg asked when he and Sherlock had covered what they needed to. He caught John’s eye in the rearview mirror. 

“Fine,” John said.

Sherlock turned in his seat to run his eyes up and down John, who sat stiffly behind him.

“He’s about to piss himself,” he said, turning back to face front, and John immediately swore, telling Sherlock to fuck the hell off. He was not in the mood to deal with Sherlock’s antics, and his anger came fast and harsh. 

Sherlock seemed on the verge of listing the numerous observed signs that had allowed him to understand John’s current predicament in order to prove that he was correct in the assumption. John--so help him, god--was on the verge of socking his boyfriend in the throat. Luckily, the police radio went off at that moment, and Greg, after receiving intelligence from one of his officers, turned on the siren above them and took a sharp right turn, taking them in another direction. 

“There’s been another murder,” he said, “Sorry boys.”

John had tried to be helpful at the crime scene, taking notes and posing questions. But now that his bladder had made itself known, it continued to plague him while he worked, and his fear that he might piss himself made him irritable, prone to snapping at Sherlock and even Greg when he’d asked if he was alright. John didn’t need Greg’s babying, and he certainly didn’t need Sherlock’s underhanded teasing regarding the coffee he’d had midday to keep himself alert. 

Four days ago, John wetting himself would not have been a particularly significant event. Hell, he’d even told Mycroft and Greg that he liked it, that he wanted it to become an even more significant part of their ageplay. But in the light of day, dealing with the everyday stress of adulthood, he could not help but criticize his own desires as somehow perverse, even ridiculous. A part of him could not help but think he’d brought this current predicament on himself.

And then, all at once, he knew he needed to leave the crime scene before he wet himself. 

“Sherlock,” he said, voice tense, and the detective took in John’s taut stance and immediately nodded. When Greg’s eyes widened, John worried the dampness he felt in his briefs was worse than he thought, didn’t dare to glance down to confirm his suspicions that there was a wet spot which had begun to soak through to the front of his jeans. 

“Look for the man’s employer,” Sherlock said, standing up from where he had been crouched over the body. “He’ll have a missing finger on his dominant hand, which in this case is his left. Some sort of carpentry accident, most likely. He’s your murderer.”

John was led by Sherlock by the elbow down the steps of the abandoned building and out into daylight.

“We’ll find a taxi,” he said. 

But John could already feel himself leaking again, knew he wouldn’t make it even the short ride back to Baker Street. He groaned in the back of his throat.

“No,” he said. “No, we won’t.”

He turned around the corner of the building as he pissed himself, close to the wall to hide himself from the wandering investigators and crime scene technicians. Sherlock’s hand was on his shoulder, and John shrugged it off. He didn’t want pity. 

A part of him considered unzipping his jeans and pissing against the side of the house. But there were too many others around, and his jeans were already dripping; he may as well suck it up and piss himself like a man. He kept his head high and his stance strong, feeling the warmth stream down the inside of first one leg, and then the other, nearly an entire day’s worth of piss soaking into his clothing. 

When John was finished, he was overcome with a momentary relief that quickly settled into animosity. He shouldn’t have had coffee, he shouldn’t have let Sherlock drag him around the entire day, and he shouldn’t have fucking pissed himself. Without any forethought, he punched against the brick wall of the house with a quick, angry jab which left him grasping his hand in pain. 

“Wear this,” Sherlock said, holding out his coat. 

But John shook his head. He could tell by the look on Sherlock’s face that his eyes had gone dark, that he was the picture of aloof rage. 

“We’ll never get a taxi otherwise,” Sherlock said, and John acquiesced.

They’d made it home without any further incident, John silent and seething with anger towards himself built not only out of the soaking wet state of his jeans but also out of the arousal he felt in spite of his displeasure. He was disgusted with himself in more ways than one, and he’d let not only Sherlock, but Greg, see him squirm. 

Sherlock had tried to speak when they’d reached their flat, tried to provide his own breed of comfort, but John had ignored him, casting the man’s coat off and retreating to his bedroom, where he was currently huddled beneath the blankets in nothing but a t-shirt and his soaked briefs, pushing away the encroaching thoughts that his thumb might provide him a bit of comfort, that his plush rabbit was only a few steps away, closed in the closet. 

He needed to take a shower, to get dressed in dry clothes. Perhaps cold water would settle him a bit, ground him back into himself. 

His mobile began ringing, and despite his first instinct to ignore, he leaned over the mattress to find his jacket where he had let it drop to the floor and fished in the pocket until he found his phone. 

Mycroft was calling. 

John declined the call, but a moment later it began again, and John, with a sigh, answered.

“I’m not with Sherlock, Mycroft,” he said, still feeling short-tempered and moody.

He could tell the call was connected, could see the time of the call ticking by the seconds when he pulled the mobile away from his ear. But Mycroft was not speaking; there was silence on the other end of the line.

“Mycroft?” John asked.

“Yes?” Mycroft asked, his voice as self-righteous as ever.

John sighed, bit back the venomous words pulsing through his mind.

“You called me, Mycroft,” he said. “What the hell do you want?”

Silence once more.

“Fuck off, Mycroft,” John spat.

But something kept him from hanging up the phone. He rarely swore at Mycroft, rarely let himself get to the point of insulting the man if it weren’t in regards to Sherlock’s well-being. The small voice at the back of his mind could not help but feel instantly shamed by his attitude, and John’s anger began to settle. 

“I’m sorry,” he said with a sigh. “That was uncalled for.”

Mycroft did not agree, as John expected. He simply hummed, and then was silent once more. John was forced to come to terms with the fact that Mycroft was more than likely waiting for John to begin the conversation.

“Did Sherlock call you?” he asked. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Not Sherlock, no,” Mycroft said. “I did, however, receive a rather concerning text message from Detective Inspector Lestrade.” 

John closed his eyes and groaned. Of course Greg had called Mycroft. Of course John’s shame was passed around from person to person within moments. John lay back on the mattress and once more pulled the sheets over himself. He wished he could start the day over again. 

“I’m fine,” John said.

Mycroft did not respond.

“I don’t need to talk, Mycroft,” he said, knowing the man on the other end of the phone call was saying more with his silence than he ever could with words.

John ran a hand across his eyes. He shouldn’t let himself slip, shouldn’t acknowledge the tight neediness in the center of his chest begging for him to let go. But there was only so much strength and stoicism he could sustain, particularly when his Daddy was listening, was simply waiting for him to admit to what he needed. John sighed. 

His voice was small when he next spoke, caught on the edge of tears.

“Can you come pick me up?” he mumbled, because the words were hard. 

“Yes. But tell me why, sweetheart.” Mycroft said, his tone of voice softer, encouraging John to voice his needs as always.

But John didn’t have the words to explain that it had all been too much over the past few days, that he still hadn’t had time to process his thoughts from the weekend, that the contrast between the weekend at the lake and being little for so many hours on end and being adult and chasing murderers with Sherlock was too great. He couldn’t tell Mycroft he’d been fighting to stay fully grown, that he just wanted to cuddle and suck on his pacifier but his adult mind had told him he’d had plenty of that over the weekend and he needed to be big. He couldn’t put into words the way his relationship with Sherlock felt different, now, that there were unspoken questions and concerns neither of them had found a way to bring up. 

“Because I need you, Daddy,” John said around the thumb he’d slipped into his mouth. And that would have to be good enough for now.


	2. Stubborn Refusal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loves! Sorry for the delay in updating--I had a few different ideas for how this chapter would go so it took a bit longer to make decisions and get it all down into writing. Not to mention I'm in a bit of a transition time in my own life so there's been a bit of chaos. Thanks for the support you've all already shown about this new storyline!
> 
> No real ageplay in this chapter, just a couple of stubborn boys refusing to acknowledge they need their Daddy and Papa. the cuteness will return, soon, though! Enjoy!

Mycroft was at Baker Street within fifteen minutes, stepping up the stairs and into the flat without knocking. Sherlock was at the kitchen table, sitting over a cup of tea and, Mycroft assumed, sorting the details of the most recently solved case into his Mind Palace. 

“Upstairs,” Sherlock said without glancing to Mycroft, his eyes remaining closed.

“They arrested the murderer,” Mycroft relayed, passing along the message from Greg.

Sherlock gave a slight nod but otherwise remained passive, almost unresponsive. Mycroft would need to talk to his brother soon, check in on his emotional state now that he was in the beginning stages of a letdown after a case. He wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock were on the brink of slipping down in age as well. But for now he was occupied, and Mycroft had a tearful Bunny to care for.

He took the steps to the second floor of the flat two at a time, but paused when he reached John’s closed bedroom door. He wanted to give John space and independence until he had ascertained his current mindset.

There was no answer when Mycroft knocked, at least none that he could hear through the closed door, and so there was nothing to do but open the door and peer into the room. Mycroft heard John’s sniffling immediately, could see the man hunched fully beneath the sheet on his bed. His wet clothing had been left in a trail on the floor, as if he pulled items off one by one until he reached the safety and comfort of his bed. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Mycroft said gently.

The crying man pulled himself out from beneath the sheets, immediately sitting up, pulling his thumb from his mouth, and scrubbing at his tear-streaked face. 

“I, ah,” John seemed to realize just how he must look and yanked the sheets to cover his half-dressed state. “I’m alright, now, Mycroft. I’m sorry I asked you to come.”

John’s attempts to make himself appear presentable, however, did little to convince Mycroft that John was adult. The man looked, more than anything, like a rather pitiful child. John’s eyes were red from crying, his face flushed and hair mussed from being under the sheets, and before he’d pulled the sheets over himself, Mycroft had been able to see that he was dressed in nothing but a crumpled t-shirt and yellow-stained briefs. 

“I’m fine, Mycroft,” he repeated, voice husky from crying. “I’m sorry I asked you to come.”

Mycroft stood in the doorway, assessing John’s current mindset. Whatever his appearance, the man had clearly not let himself become Bunny just yet. His eyes still retained John’s cautiousness; the way he held himself was reminiscent of Doctor Watson far more than Mycroft and Greg’s little princess. Still fighting headspace, then. 

“John,” he said, voice betraying the worry he felt.

“I’m okay, now,” John said. “I’ll be okay.”

“We should get you settled into some clean clothes,” Mycroft offered, stepping into the room as he decided to take matters into his own hands. 

He knew John found it easier to accept care than to ask for care, and it was clear the man needed care right now. Mycroft was not about to sit back and let the man suffer out of some stubborn pride or self-consciousness. He could not keep from thinking just how small John had sounded on the phone.

But even Mycroft’s forward nature did not seem to shake John’s resolve to take care of his soiled briefs himself. The man cleared his throat as he blushed at the mention of his accident, but held up a hand to signal that he did not need Mycroft to come any closer.

“I’ll, ah...yeah. I’m going to take a shower,” John said, running a hand along the back of his neck before he began untangling himself from the sheets. 

Mycroft sighed.

“Bun, let me help you,” he said.

John paused where he had stood from the bed to stared up at Mycroft, and any trace of the needy little boy--his sweet little Bunny--was absent from his gaze.

“I’m fine, Mycroft,” he said, voice harsh before he seemed to remember that he had been the one to ask Mycroft to come in the first place. He took a breath.

Mycroft nodded. 

“I’ll be downstairs,” he said. “In case you need anything.”

He turned to let John be, but before he had made it down a step, he heard John call to him from behind the closed bathroom door.

“I won’t,” the man said, and Mycroft sighed once more.

\----

By the time Mycroft reached the kitchen, Sherlock was on his mobile.

“Mycroft, what’s the Finnish word for debacle or catastrophe?” Sherlock asked, not looking up from the screen. 

He was typing away without pause, and Mycroft could see he was switching between crime chatrooms he frequented when bored or in need of distraction. Already feeling the let-down of the case, then. 

“Brother, mine,” Mycroft said, pausing until Sherlock glanced up at him. “When’s the last time you ate something?”

“I’m fine, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, squirming as he turned his focus back to his phone. “Go bother the baby. I’m working.”

Mycroft did not understand what appeal the chatrooms brought to his brother--the crimes discussed were generally simple and mundane, neighborhood disputes Sherlock could solve in mere moments with the right evidence or unsolved cases from years ago fraught with conspiracy theories and false opinions. Mycroft assumed he actually took more pleasure from insulting the intelligence of the amateur armchair detectives who posted leads and question to the sites than from solving the cases or providing leads. 

Sherlock squirmed again. Mycroft knew that squirm.

“Better yet, when’s the last time you used the loo?” he asked. 

Sherlock hid it well, but Mycroft could see that drawing attention to his brother’s bladder had put the man on edge. He hunched farther in his chair and began typing more rapidly on his phone.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warned.

“I’m not actually a child, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped. “I don’t need you mother-henning me. Leave me alone.” 

Mycroft took a breath. It was more than clear both Sherlock and John were in need of a bit of coddling. But there was little Mycroft could do until they acknowledged that for themselves. If he tried to force them into headspace they very well may fight even harder than they were currently, and Mycroft and Greg had always said they would respect when and if the men wanted to be young. While he was in caretaker mode, Mycroft had a responsibility to act in the best interests of the boy’s health and safety. But when the boys were adult, they had to be given the space and independence to deal with their issues on their own; all Mycroft could do was show them that he was there for them whenever they did decide to give in to their needs.

“Well,” Mycroft said, clasping his hands in front of him. “That seems to be the consensus.”

He pulled on his coat and retrieved his umbrella from where it had been resting by the front door.

“I’ve taken the rest of the night off,” Mycroft said as Sherlock typed incessantly. 

Mycroft didn’t need to say any more. Even the insinuation that he may have cause to take the night off seemed to aggravate Sherlock, who stood from the kitchen table and retreated to the living room, where he threw himself down on the couch, all the while typing and switching between websites. 

“Just a suggestion, little brother mine,” Mycroft drawled.

Sherlock glanced up only to glare at him.

“They really ought to study you for your uncanny ability to stifle your idiocy on a day to day basis,” he said.

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow.

“Cruelty does not suit you, Sherlock,” he said, unable to keep his voice from slipping into something more paternal.

There were footsteps on the staircase, and John stepped into the living room, toweling his wet hair. He was dressed in jeans and a sweater, and quickly seemed to read the mood of the room.

“I’ve taken the night off,” Mycroft said again, this time to John. “In case--”

“--We won’t,” John said, then turned his eyes down to the floor as he crossed into the kitchen to put on the tea kettle. “Thanks, though.” 

Sherlock huffed as if John’s words had proven his point, and Mycroft hummed something noncommittal. The men were both stubborn, but even their adamant proclamations that they would not need a caretaker that evening could not hide from Mycroft the younger selves hovering far closer to the surface than either would like to admit. 

“Goodnight, then,” Mycroft said, and he turned to leave.

\----

There was concern in his voice when he spoke to Greg on the phone while he was driven to his apartment. Greg was still at the precinct, finalizing paperwork and dealing with media inquiries now that the case was over that would keep him busy late into the night. 

“You’ve let them know you’re available,” Greg said before calling out to an officer to ask a question about a missing file. “You can’t make them accept headspace if they’re not ready to.”

Mycroft knew Greg was right, knew he needed to sit back and wait for the boys to come to them on their own terms. Even so, he could not help but feel uneasy that he’d left them to their own devices. The men were destructive even when fully adult; there was no telling what could happen if both of them continued to refuse themselves comfort and existed in the in-between space between adult and child.

“I’ll finish up here as soon as I can and meet you at yours,” Greg said, for which Mycroft was grateful. “And, Mycroft, I wouldn’t be surprised if I just happen to find the boys already tucked into their beds when I get home.”

“You underestimate their dogged obstinacy,” Mycroft smirked, and Greg chuckled. “They’re going to give me an ulcer.”

“It’s going to be alright, love,” he said, his smile in his voice. “Give them time. They’ll come around.” 

Mycroft told Greg he would see him later that night, then hung up the phone. He hoped Greg was right, and found himself wandering into the guest rooms Mycroft had begun setting up for each of the boys at his house, two small rooms not far from the master bedroom which had an adjoining door that could be propped open to allow the boys to move freely between each others’ room without needing to go out into the hallway. 

They had generally spent time at Baker street when the boys were feeling young, but after the weekend at the lake, Mycroft had not been able to keep from anticipating having all of his boys--Sherlock, John, and Greg--under his own roof, where there was plenty of space and a few surprises already tucked away for the kiddos. 

He optimistically lay out a new pair of pajamas for Sherlock--blue cotton covered in little sharks--in the navy blue bedroom, and a new nightgown for John--light yellow with a fuzzy bunny on the chest--in the pale green bedroom. He had only just begun, but already he had stocked each room with a selection of clothing, toys, and comfort items specific to each boy. 

Greg would tease that now it was Mycroft who was spoiling the kids, but Mycroft wouldn’t mind. He had seen the past weekend just how happy they could all be together, and he would do what he could to ensure it became a regular occurrence. 

He retreated to his study and poured a highball glass of bourbon as he turned on an old movie. There was sinking feeling that had been lodged in his chest since he’d received the text from Greg earlier that evening, a sinking feeling he knew would not be alleviated until he knew his little ones were safe, asleep in their own beds upstairs. His thoughts wandered to Baker Street and to Sherlock and John, feeling for all the world like he'd left his kids home alone without a babysitter.


	3. A Night at the Pub

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been far too long and you've all been very, very patient--I apologize for the delay and thank you all for your kind comments from the last chapter (and for whispered for checking in on me--you're so sweet)! This chapter has given me a ton of trouble and I've been working a lot on some other projects which have taken up a lot of my free time, but I finally got around to updating! 
> 
> It's very important that I give WARNINGS for intentional wetting which leads to sexual arousal/groping/fondling in this chapter between Sherlock and John. They are fully adult during the entire situation, but if you'd rather not read anything sexual between them, feel free to hang tight until they slip back into headspace in the next chapter or two.
> 
> This chapter is a bit different from previous ones because it does explore the sexual relationship between Sherlock and John, but it felt necessary given some of the issues they're still working through after Weekend. Hope you like it!

John and Sherlock were perched on the couch, John watching a game on the telly while Sherlock read from an old novel, sprawled lengthwise with his feet resting in John’s lap. John was distracted; Sherlock had already poked fun at how tensely he was sitting on the end of the couch.

The truth of the matter was that John could not keep from thinking about Mycroft. Despite his attempts to keep his mind on the footie game, his thoughts continued to wander towards the man’s willingness to drop whatever it was he had been doing in order to comfort John during his earlier hour of need. If John hadn’t turned Mycroft away, he would currently be snuggled beside his Daddy with his pacifier and stuffed rabbit.

John cleared his throat and ran a hand over his face, reaching for the remote and turning up the volume on the telly. He needed to keep himself in the present moment. Sherlock glanced up with a pointed look that John was not in the mood to process or respond to at the moment. 

It was true John had been on the verge of headspace earlier that day. He still was on the verge, if he were completely honest with himself. But earlier, when he was in bed waiting for Mycroft to arrive, already feeling better thinking through the comforts he would gain by spending an evening as Bunny with his Daddy, John suddenly realized that if he were to let Mycroft to pick him up and take him back to his house to care for him, Sherlock would be left behind at Baker Street. 

Sherlock was most susceptible to self-harm and destructive behavior when in the midst of a let-down after a case. It often took Sherlock a day or two after finalizing logistics and processing the events of each case to begin feeling little. Sherlock was not about to suddenly want to slip younger just because John had been stressed about wetting himself. And if John abandoned Sherlock by slipping into headspace, who would be around to make sure Sherlock was handling the post-case boredom without resorting to his self-destructive tactics? 

No, he couldn’t be little right now. Not when he had Sherlock to watch over. He’d just spent an entire weekend being young. He could wait a few more days for Mycroft’s care.

John may not have been able to focus on the footie game, but he could sense the moment Sherlock began to get restless. The book Sherlock had been absently reading was obviously no longer distracting for the man. 

“Fancy a pint?” John asked, and Sherlock shrugged but stood from the couch. .

Trips to the pub were a common ploy of John’s, but they had somehow kept their effectiveness despite Sherlock having long since realized John used them as a way to get Sherlock out of his own head. Alcohol and forced socialization steered Sherlock away from despair and stimulated him just enough that, after a while, John could often get him to converse about topics not related to their most recently solved case, an early step towards stopping Sherlock from obsessing over what he could have done quicker or what he should have realized earlier. Sherlock was constantly second-guessing himself after cases. 

John turned off the telly and grabbed his coat, following Sherlock out of the flat and over to their neighborhood pub

But as Sherlock slipped into a booth and John ordered them each a pint, he could sense there was a hesitancy to the night and to Sherlock. John suspected their inability to come upon a mutual topic of conversation had less to do with the triple homicide and more to do with the events of the past weekend. 

John sipped at his pint. Sherlock was prattling on about the way in which the fermentation processes used in the process of making American beers differed from that of European. 

They had by now had a bit of time to process the drama of the weekend at the lake, albeit not as much as was probably necessary, and John, for one, was feeling tentatively optimistic about the overall progress they had all made as a foursome. But there were lingering questions and concerns that still needed to be aired--between him and Sherlock in particular. 

“Sherlock,” John said for the second time in as many minutes, interrupting Sherlock’s discussion of whiskey barrels.

The man across from him glanced up with a bit of irritation, not enjoying the fact that John had halted him just as he was beginning to trace the origins of Scotch. 

He meant to begin a conversation about their relationship, meant to bring up events of the past weekend, but Sherlock had been staring, and John had felt suddenly exposed. 

“How do you know so much about alcohol?” was what he finally settled upon. 

“I memorized facts and statistics about alcohol in preparation for university,” Sherlock said. “I anticipated it could be a topic of conversation at parties.”

John could not help but snort into his half-finished pint. Sherlock did not look amused, pretending to be hurt by John’s laughter and vowing to give him the silent treatment for the rest of the night. John apologized and half-heartedly consented to the fact that the origins of liquor certainly made for riveting party conversation. 

“John, I can sense there’s more you’d like to talk about than whiskey barrels,” Sherlock said when their laughter settled into a tense silence once more. “Shall we discuss this past weekend?”

John sighed and nodded, grateful for Sherlock’s ability to read his mind. 

“I, ah…,” John said, floundering a bit to find an appropriate place to start. Discussing emotions was not particularly John’s forte while adult, and it definitely was not Sherlock’s. “Are you...feeling okay about it all?”

“If you’re referring to your newfound attachment to my older brother,” Sherlock said, alluding to Mycroft’s new status as John’s Daddy without expressly using the words, “I think it’s about time someone else gets the bulk of his overbearing coddling for once.”

“Sherlock,” John said, head tilted and gaze pointed

Sherlock sighed, appearing to resign himself to the fact that John expected him to speak honestly.

“There’s some jealousy, I suppose,” Sherlock said after a moment, glancing down into his pint. “Only natural.”

“Jealousy is natural, yes. But you’re not…” John thought for a moment before hitting upon the right word. “Resentful?”

Sherlock hummed and took a moment to contemplate John’s question. 

“Not resentful, no,” Sherlock said at last. And then, after a long enough time had passed that both men had finished their pints and John felt his boyfriend was done with the strain of conversation, Sherlock spoke again. 

“I genuinely want you to be happy, John,” Sherlock said. “It’s clear you gain something from headspace that you haven’t felt comfortable getting anywhere else. And Mycroft is a significant part of that gain for you.”

“For you as well,” John said. “I’d never want your relationship with Mycroft to suffer because of me.” 

Sherlock shook his head.

“Mycroft will always be my older brother,” Sherlock said. “That’s not something only reserved for headspace; our roles were set long ago. A slight change in your dynamic with Mycroft is not going to derail an entire lifetime of our dysfunctional sibling relationship.”

John smiled sideways at Sherlock’s joke.

“I want to apologize again for tearing up the paper dolls,” Sherlock said, his voice soft.

John shook his head, cleared his throat.

“It’s nothing,” he said, twisting the empty pint glass in his hands. But Sherlock did not speak, and John was forced to glance up at him.

“I’m sorry, John,” he said, and John, realizing he was still pained by Sherlock’s action, nodded.

“Jealousy, once again,” Sherlock said. “Nothing more.”

John was unconvinced, certain Sherlock had an issue with John’s newfound expressions of what was coded as feminine behavior. 

“I don’t have to be…” he began, but Sherlock raised a hand.

“It was nothing more than jealousy,” Sherlock said again, voice stern, and John smiled in relief. 

“I think we could use another round,” John said, getting to his feet to retrieve more beer. 

He was already feeling the effects, but one more wouldn’t hurt. If anything, being drunk with Sherlock was helping him to forget the events of the day, of the past few days. He hadn’t thought about Mycroft for more than a fleeting moment in hours.

When he returned to their booth, Sherlock had switched to John’s side of the table. John paused, glancing at him in confusion, then moved to take the place Sherlock had vacated.

“Not over there,” Sherlock said. “Sit here, with me.”

John was hesitant. Sherlock rarely showed any displays of affection while in public, at times went out of his way to defray any suspicions that they were a couple. John knew these were his own hang-ups, not Sherlock’s, that if it weren’t for John’s ridiculous aversion to others thinking he was gay, Sherlock would not waste any energy attempting to uphold the friends illusion.

John glanced around the pub. It was a quiet night, and those who were still around seemed far too drunk or absorbed with their own issues to notice two blokes sitting together in a booth. John allowed himself to settle back down into his half-drunk state, and slipped into the seat beside Sherlock.

He passed Sherlock a pint, then sipped from his own. But Sherlock was not reaching for his glass, and when John turned towards him, about to question whether he was going to drink anything more that night, Sherlock took his hand in his. 

“There is one more thing about this past weekend we haven’t properly discussed,” he said, and John turned to face him, attempting to think through what he may have missed.

Sherlock placed John’s hand on his thigh, just below the crotch of his trousers, and John could not help but blush as he glanced down to see that Sherlock was aroused. He attempted to pull his hand away from where Sherlock was pressing it down against his leg, but Sherlock would not let him free. This went far beyond the usual public displays of affection.

“Sherlock, I think it’s best if--”

John froze, eyes wide as he felt the fabric beneath his fingertips grow warm with a short burst of wetness. He turned to face Sherlock, who smirked, then released another spurt of pee into his trousers.

“Sherlock, you can’t fucking piss yourself here,” he said, but that was exactly what John wanted him to do. He had been aroused from the first sign of wetness, and was drunk enough that he had only a passing care for the fact that Sherlock was about to wet the seat.

Sherlock bent down to speak quietly into John’s ear.

“I told you we didn’t have to reserve this for little space,” he whispered, and then released his bladder, pissing forcefully into his trousers.

John’s breath caught in his throat as he felt the urine hot and soaking against first his fingertips and then, as he shifted to tuck his hand farther between Sherlock thighs, against his palm and even his wrist. He was desperate for Sherlock’s piss, pressing himself hard against Sherlock who was already pressed tight against the end of the booth. 

“I’ve been desperate for hours,” Sherlock breathed as John--others in the pub be damned--tilted his head up to kiss his still-pissing boyfriend. 

John could feel the piss soaking into the sleeve of his sweater, and, not long after, soaking into the rear of his jeans as liquid poured beneath Sherlock onto the seat, no longer able to be contained by the fabric of his own trousers. John realized for the first time that Sherlock had taken off his coat when he switched seats, that it was draped over the bench seat across from there. In retrospect, if John hadn’t been quite so drunk, he may have realized what Sherlock was planning. 

“You’re absolutely soaking,” John said, breathless. His own jeans were warm and wet, and even his underwear had not escaped becoming saturated. It was a strange feeling, reminiscent of the times he’d pissed himself but additionally arousing given the fact that it was Sherlock’s piss soaking into his clothes and that his own bladder was still heavy and full. John had to press the hand not currently sandwiched between Sherlock’s thighs against his own crotch, as the stimulation, the routine of wet pants, threatened to encourage him to release his own full bladder. 

And Sherlock was still pissing. John could hear liquid patter as it rolled off of the seat and onto the floor. 

“I couldn’t hold it,” Sherlock breathed when, at last, John could no longer feel a strong stream beneath his hand. It was something Sherlock may have said in headspace after an accident. Except, now, Sherlock was not shame-faced and small. He was breathlessly excited, voice husky and rather prideful. 

“Baker Street,” John managed after another kiss, sliding from the seat and retrieving Sherlock’s coat. 

He tossed it to the man, who slipped it on, and they hurried from the pub, John not caring that his entire backside was very obviously wet, that liquid had even begun trickling down the backs of his thighs. Sherlock took his hand in his own, and they hurried around the corner back to their apartment. 

For the first time that night, John was glad he had not gone to Mycroft’s to be babied. Being adult certainly had its own advantages.


	4. Slipping Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi loves!
> 
> It was feeling like a bit of a drag to get up the motivation to write for this series over the past week or so, but I feel much better now and was very excited to write this chapter and get the boys one step closer back to their little headspaces.
> 
> This chapter is broken into two parts: part one deals with the after effects of Sherlock's little stunt at the pub (it's John's turn when they get back to Baker street); part two shows John finally giving into (or, in reality, being a bit forced into) headspace and slipping down into his little Bunny self at long last. 
> 
> If you'd rather not read anything sexual/see Sherlock and John exploring their adult relationship, please skip down to after the dashes and just read part two. 
> 
> Hope you're all doing well--thank you greatly for your kudos and comments. They keep me going :)
> 
> Sending bunny kisses on this rainy (where I am, at least) day! <3

Once they’d entered their flat, Sherlock turned to do up the deadbolt on their front door. John raised his eyebrows, and Sherlock actually smirked. 

Sherlock never bothered to lock the door, and often became annoyed when John did because it often meant Sherlock was locked out whenever he inevitably forgot his key. But it was clear that Sherlock did not want to be bothered at the moment.

“You shouldn’t have done that back at the bar,” John breathed as Sherlock pressed him against the wall and leaned in to kiss him against the neck. 

“Don’t complain about what arouses you, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock said, pressing his knee up between John’s thighs. 

It was a bit ironic that Sherlock, despite being the less experienced of the two, almost always took on the dominant personality in their sex life. Nevertheless, the dynamic worked for the two of them, and John had to admit it wasn’t exactly a stretch to find himself settling back to take orders from Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s hands were on his waist as John’s mouth found his boyfriend’s, and John could not help but snake his own hand down the front of Sherlock’s trousers, which had now gone cold and clammy. 

“Now would be the time for you to piss yourself, John,” Sherlock breathed when they’d parted for a moment. 

John moaned and bucked his hips in order to make contact against Sherlock’s leg, which was currently parting his own. He did have to piss, had been nursing the need long since Sherlock had wet himself at the bar. 

They’d seen each other in wet pants so many times at this point that John had lost count. Hell, he’d even pissed in Sherlock’s bed this past weekend when he was teetering between headspaces. But he and Sherlock had never done this before, not in this way. They had never before used piss play as a prelude to sex, and John was just as nervous as he was aroused, his heart beating in his throat.

John must have hesitated for too long, because the next thing he knew he could feel Sherlock’s fingertips on the bare skin of his stomach, and he was squirming away.

“Sherlock,” he warned, suddenly sober and serious. 

But Sherlock was not about to let John get away without pissing into his jeans, and as much as John tried to make himself immune, Sherlock had him in too vulnerable a position to escape. 

“Just helping you out a bit,” Sherlock said, grinning devilishly before his fingers began skirting John’s stomach and sides.

John could not help but squirm and laugh as Sherlock tickled, cheeks burning red as he imagined how ridiculous he must look, a grown man dissolving into giggles. He pushed against Sherlock’s chest, but the man’s arms were far longer than John’s, and Sherlock was too dead-set on accomplishing his goal. 

It was strange to be tickled; John had tickled a few girlfriends here and there but hadn’t been on the receiving end with any of them. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been tickled. It must have been in childhood, but even thinking back to his younger years he didn’t have clear memories of it. The sensation was a mix of vulnerability, helplessness, and fun, although the longer the tickling went on the less exciting it became.

“Sherlock, stop!” John gasped, out of breath, feeling himself losing control as Sherlock moved his hands up beneath John’s sweater and t-shirt to tickle his ribs. His hands were wrapped tight around Sherlock’s forearms, attempting to pry him away, but he was too weak with laughter to be a productive deterrent. “I’m going to piss myself!”

“Good,” Sherlock grinned, settling his thigh beneath John’s crotch as he stepped closer and continued to tickle relentlessly.

John made it about two more minutes before losing control. Sherlock had begun simultaneously tickling his sides and running his tongue along his neck, and John was unsure which stimulation was worse. In any case, he hadn’t been able to get his hand between his legs to hold himself, and he soon began to feel his bladder releasing, liquid leaking into his already piss-soaked underwear. 

“Sherlock,” John yelled between garbled bursts of laughter. “Sherlock, I’m pissing!”

Sure enough, John could feel a steady stream of pee releasing into his underwear and then his jeans, streaming down his right leg. He was unable to stop himself, stomach muscles aching from being tensed with laughter. He was too exhausted and too far gone. 

Sherlock at long last ceased his tickling, had simply began stroking his fingers along John’s bare stomach in a sort of encouragement. 

“Good boy,” Sherlock mumbled, and god damn of course Sherlock would have figured out by now that John had a praise kink.

He peed strong and fast into his jeans, soaking himself and Sherlock’s thigh, which was still pressed against his crotch. John’s cheeks blazed, but Sherlock’s pupils were dilated as he leaned forward to kiss John, a hand finding John’s crotch as the final trickles of liquid darkened the fabric of his trousers. 

“I thought you were a big boy,” Sherlock smirked when they at last pulled apart to catch their breath, one eyebrow raised.

John shoved him hard against the chest.

“You forget I’m not the one with the humiliation kink,” he said snarkily, knowing Sherlock’s comment had meant to tease, to demean. Even so, he could not help but argue that Sherlock had been the one who’d made him wet himself. 

Sherlock shut him up with another kiss, tugging him towards the bathroom. 

\----

John blinked awake after a violent, rushed dream, heart beating as he glanced around the darkness to get his bearings. He was breathing heavily, face and chest slick with sweat. As he came back to himself and his circumstances, he realized he was sleeping in Sherlock’s bed, the taller man’s long limbs spread out across the mattress next to him. Sherlock was snoring lightly, as peaceful as John was rattled.

He remembered coming to bed with Sherlock after taking a joint shower where the two men had spent more time with their hands over each other than they had getting clean. John had never been much for shower sex, but the night before it had been the most convenient venue given the fact that they were both practically dripping with urine. They’d fallen into bed not long after, Sherlock giving way to sleep very quickly after sex, John not far behind. 

Now, awake in the middle of the night, John felt drained, as if the sleep he’d gotten since they’d come to bed had not been very deep or particularly effective. Scattered images from the dream he’d woken from plagued his mind, blood from gunshot wounds and muddy, disorganized battlefields still presiding in the space before him. 

Generally, Sherlock woke when John had nightmares and was rather good at settling John back into himself, grounding him and reminding him that he was not still in the midst of warfare. But Sherlock had clearly not woken up this time, and John was not about to disturb him. The man was impossible when he was overtired, and if Sherlock was woken he often had an extremely tough time getting back to sleep. It wouldn’t be fair for John to wake him just because he felt lonely.

He ran a hand over his eyes as he fell back against the pillow. They were just dreams. Even his childhood nightmares of monsters and goblins had been easier to get over than the dreams spurred on by his PTSD. Why did they have to make him feel so shaken, so frightened? Why did they always make him long to be little? 

He was unsure whether his head hurt because he was hungover or because he was getting a cold--there was a bit of congestion in his sinuses and a scratch in his throat--but, in either case, he wasn’t going to be able to fall back to sleep unless he decompressed a bit and found some asprin. As he sat up to climb out of bed, however, he knew something else was off besides his headache. 

John shifted his legs, then cursed to himself. It was not just sweat which had made him feel so clammy. He had peed the bed. 

Any attempts he had been making to hold back his younger self seemed futile in the midst of the realization. He hand’t wet the bed unintentionally since he was a little kid, not even during the worst of his nightmares. He wasn’t even in his own bed, and his stomach sunk when he realized Sherlock would no doubt find out. He suddenly felt intensely, sincerely small.

John needed his Daddy. But he hadn’t remembered to place his phone on the nightstand beside him in the chaos and excitement of the night before, and he worried that if he tried to move too much Sherlock would wake up and see what he had done, would be angry and exasperated. 

It seemed that the safest course of action was to hide, especially as he felt tears welling in his eyes and knew he was moments away from beginning to cry. Slipping from beneath the sheets and blankets as carefully as possible so as not to disturb Sherlock, John scrambled into the closet near his side of the bed. He huddled beneath Sherlock’s clothes hung above him, pulling his knees to his chest after he’d closed the door. He couldn’t help but chew on the edge of his thumb, the darkness frightening as tears fell.

His head pounded, and John was most certainly slipping into Bunny, who was rather afraid of small, dark spaces like the closet. He could barely see five inches in front of him with the door closed, and he had to bite back a yelp when he moved his shoulder and felt something brush against him. His adult mind knew it was simply a pair of trousers hanging from above, but his adult mind was not taking precedence at the moment, and Bunny felt helpless, cold and wet with an aching head as he worried about monsters waiting in the shadowns. So he cried, sucking his thumb in an attempt to stifle the noise. 

He knew he should be quiet, knew that Sherlock was a light sleeper. But he also knew that he was tired of being alone and tired of being big, and at the moment that seemed more important than his fear of potentially being yelled at by Sherlock for wetting his bed. If he couldn’t have his Daddy, at least he might be able to have his big brother. 

“John?”

Bunny sucked in a cry and held his breath. Sherlock was mumbling, still half-alseep. 

“John? Where are you?”

Soft light spilled beneath the base of the closet door, and Bunny could hear the man climb out of bed, floorboards squeaking as he walked towards his hiding place. Sherlock’s voice was quieter when he next spoke, closer to the boy’s level, as if he were crouched down in front of the closet door.

“Bunny?” Sherlock asked. 

John could not help but dissolve into a new wave of tears. Finally, he could be exactly what he’d been needing for days, now. Finally he didn’t have to pretend anymore. 

“I’m sorry,” Bunny wailed, a hand over his wet pajama pants as Sherlock opened the closet door. “I didn’t mean to!”

Sherlock blinked down at him, and Bunny knew what he was saying had probably been rather unintelligible given his blubbering and sniffling, not to mention the thumb planted firmly in his mouth. 

“Hey, you’re okay,” Sherlock said, crouching down in front of him. “Bad dream?”

Bunny nodded, then closed his eyes and cried again. He didn’t want to explain to Sherlock why he was upset, didn’t want to admit to him that he’d wet the bed. He just wanted someone to hold him, someone to rub his back and help him clean up. 

Whether Sherlock decided he was too hungover to be up for the task of caring for his regressed boyfriend in the middle of the night or whether he sensed that the boy needed his Daddy, Bunny didn’t care. All that mattered was that Sherlock stood, reached around the back of the closet door and into the pocket of his dressing gown, and pulled out his mobile.

“I’m going to call Mycroft, okay?” he asked, and Bunny nodded hard enough to remind him that his head was pounding. 

Bunny could hear Mycroft answer after only two rings, and he made a high-pitched noise in the back of his throat. Just knowing his Daddy was on the other end of the line made him more desperate to talk to him, to see him.

“Mycroft, we have a bit of a situation,” Sherlock explained, then listened to Mycroft on the other end.

“No,” Sherlock said, seeming to interrupt as Mycroft said something which obviously frustrated the consulting detective. He turned away from the closet and lowered his voice. “Would you get over yourself, Mycroft? It’s the baby.”

Bunny blushed as Sherlock continued.

“I didn’t do anything to him, brother mine. He had a bad dream.” 

Sherlock’s voice was tense, fluctuating between exasperation and sarcasm. 

“Would you stop asking questions and just get over here, already?” he asked, sharp and biting. “He’s clearly in a state.”

He hung up after a moment and Bunny’s lower lip wobbled, upset that he hadn’t been allowed to talk to his Daddy, nervous that Sherlock was angry. His nerves were only heightened when Sherlock left the bedroom without a word, and Bunny huddled further in on himself, crying into his knees. The man returned quickly, however, carrying Bunny’s stuffed rabbit, his baby blanket, and a pacifier, all of which he passed along to Bunny before sliding down the bedroom wall to sit on the floor, leaning his head against the frame of the closet door. 

Although he still seemed on-edge, perhaps even mildly frustrated, Bunny knew Sherlock was not really mad, that he had simply been surprised by being woken up in the middle of the night, that he was more than likely dealing with his own confusion that had nothing to do with Bunny. 

“Do you want to come out?” he asked, but Bunny, pacifier in his mouth as he hugged his rabbit to his chest, shook his head.

“That’s okay. Your Daddy will be here, soon,” he said. “I’ll stay with you until he gets here.”

Bunny draped his blanket over his shoulders, careful to keep her as far away from his wet pajamas as possible while still keeping her warm fleecy side close against the back of his neck. 

Sherlock reached a hand into the closet after a moment, and Bunny shifted a bit closer, taking it in his own. They sat in silence, holding hands, until Bunny felt brave enough to scoot on his bum just far enough out of the closet to lay his head against Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock placed a hand on his head, stroking his hair.

“Just a bad dream, kid,” Sherlock said, his eyes closed and head leaned back when Bunny glanced up to look at him. “We’ll be okay.” 

Bunny nuzzled his cheek against Sherlock’s thigh and let his eyes slip closed as he twirled the long ear of his stuffed rabbit, comforted by the thought that, right at that moment, his Daddy was making his way towards them.


	5. Picking up the Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi loves--hope you're all doing well!
> 
> This chapter was tricky for me to write, but I think I'm okay with the results! :) A bit of angst on Sherlock's part, but mostly just cute fluff as Mycroft (and then Greg) show up to care for their boys.
> 
> Thanks so much as always for your kudos and comments--they always make me smile and inspire me to keep writing!
> 
> Sending bunny kisses :)

Mycroft was on his way to Baker Street quickly. In the car, he set down the bag he’d packed with what he thought may be useful given his assessment of the situation, gave instructions to his driver, then texted Greg to let him know he was on his way to the boys. Greg was finishing up a late shift and had mentioned that he planned to go to Mycroft’s when he was off work, so Mycroft didn’t want him to be caught locked out if he arrived while he was away. It really was about time he gave Greg a key to his place.

Mycroft inadvertently slammed his shoulder into the door of 221b while attempting to enter, not used to the deadbolt being slid into place. He had a few passing moments where he attempted to ascertain why the door would be locked, but quickly ignored his hypotheses in favor of getting to his Bunny. 

He knocked and soon found himself face to face with his rather exasperated-looking little brother.

“Took you long enough,” Sherlock said. “He’s in the bedroom.”

Mycroft made his way to Sherlock’s bedroom off the kitchen, his brother trailing behind. The room was dimly lit, only the bedside table illuminating the small space, but Mycroft could make out the form of Bunny huddled just inside the closet on the far side of the bed. He placed his bag onto the end of the bed and stepped closer.

Although he disliked seeing the man looking so upset and vulnerable, he had to admit it was a relief to see John in his smaller headspace. Mycroft had been worried since leaving him earlier that evening. Now, at the sight of his youngest kid, the weight of stress he’d been bearing began to slip away.

“Hey, little one,” he said, voice quiet as he crouched in front of the boy. 

Bunny glanced up and immediately scrambled close to Mycroft, arms reaching out around his neck as his tears resumed. Mycroft took him into his arms, rocking back and forth as he ran his fingers between his shoulderblades.

“Hey, little Bunny,” he said, soothing. “You’re okay.”

Mycroft stood, scooping up Bunny, and turned to Sherlock, who had been hovering just beyond the end of the bed. 

He could see his brother was still adamantly clinging to adulthood, arms crossed over his chest as he observed without inserting himself into the situation. But there was a hesitancy in his tired eyes and in the way he hovered just within Mycroft’s line of sight which signalled that Bunny’s headspace may just have begun to trigger Sherlock’s.

“He’s wet,” he said quietly to Sherlock when Bunny was distracted by crying into his shoulder. “When did he have an accident?”

This seemed to be new information to Sherlock, who turned down the corners of his mouth and shrugged, then sighed in annoyance. 

“Can you just get him to stop crying?” Sherlock asked.

Sherlock’s snarkiness, his desire to no longer be in the presence of a regressed John, was further evidence that Sherlock was struggling with his own headspace. Mycroft raised an eyebrow but was otherwise silent. At times, Sherlock aged down progressively--from adult to teenager to child--and if he was in the beginning stages of that transition, Mycroft did not want to do anything that may set him back on the path towards adulthood. He knew that, given the details of their last case, Sherlock needed care just as much as John. 

There was no visible puddle on the bedroom floor leading into the closet, so it seemed Bunny’s accident may have happened prior to him retreating to his closet hiding place. Mycroft moved to John’s side of the bed and flipped back the sheets, and, sure enough, he revealed a wet patch of urine. Sherlock groaned and the baby tensed in Mycroft’s arms. 

“I’m sorry!” Bunny cried, trying to scramble closer into Mycroft’s hold, pressing his face against his neck. “I didn’t mean to!”

Mycroft was forced to regain his footing, nearly knocked over by Bunny’s shifting weight. He turned away from the wet bed and took the boy out of the room.

“You’re alright, baby,” Mycroft said, hushing the blubbering boy. “We’ll get you all cleaned up and everything will be okay.”

“But Sherlock’s mad,” Bunny wailed, inconsolable. “He doesn’t like me anymore and he’ll never let me sleep in his bed or talk to me ever, ever again!”

Mycroft could not help but smile at the over-dramatic nature of children, the clear division between adult and child John. More than amusement, he felt relief that he once and for all had his little Bunny in his arms, even one who was wet and upset.

“Honey, Sherlock’s not mad,” Mycroft said. “He’s just a bit grumpy right now.”

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock called from the other room.

Mycroft smirked once more, attempting to hold back laughter as he paced back and forth with Bunny in the hallway. The boys were both so predictable at times, theatrical in their own individual ways.

“What do you say we get you all washed up and into some clean jammies?” he asked, and Bunny, glancing up at him with red-rimmed eyes, nodded, his pacifier still firmly in his mouth.

The bathroom was a mess, discarded clothing draped on the floor. Mycroft set John on the edge of the sink. The kid balanced on his perch as he watched Mycroft stepped over the clothes on the floor to turn on the bath water. Mycroft tested the temperature, and then begin to pick up the shirts and trousers scattered around the room. 

But as he began to gather the laundry, he could not help but catch the pad of his thumb on a cold, damp patch on a pair of Sherlock’s trousers. It was then he noticed the smell, and sure enough when he ran his hand along the inner seams of each pant leg, they were wet in a very telling pattern. He found a pair of what he knew to be John’s jeans in the same state, and sighed.

“Sherlock, could you come in here, please?” he called.

“I’m busy,” Sherlock called, definitely as moody as a petulant teenager.

“Now, Sherlock,” Mycroft ordered, voice harsh and dominant enough to send Sherlock sighing and dragging his feet towards the bathroom.

“Want to tell me what happened here?” he asked when his curly-haired brother stood pouting in the doorway of the bathroom. 

He held out the soiled pair of Sherlock’s trousers. The blush on Sherlock’s cheeks was bright and immediate, but the man quickly hid it with a glare and a huff.

“No,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft was beginning to get impatient. Clearly, his brother was hiding his younger headspace even more than he originally thought. It was one thing for Sherlock to stubbornly refuse Mycroft’s help. It was another for both boys to have been young enough to wet themselves and not to have admitted to Mycroft or Greg that they were little until John broke down due to a bad dream. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed. “If you’ve been feeling young, it’s not healthy to keep pushing that away. We’ve talked about this before. You can’t keep ignoring what you need.”

Sherlock mumbled something incoherent. 

“It’s unsafe for both your brother and yourself,” Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows as he waited for an explanation.

Sherlock mumbled again, a rare show of uncertainty.

“Speak up, brother mine,” Mycroft said, forcing patience.

“We weren’t little!” Sherlock said, this time raising his voice in frustration.

Mycroft blinked back at his brother. Yes, there were times when Sherlock wet his pants either accidentally or purposefully while still adult, but those times had lessened once they’d gotten him on a more regular ageplay schedule. Add that to the embarrassment behind Sherlock’s eyes currently--embarrassment Sherlock very rarely showed after accidents he’d mainly grown to accept and even at times flaunt--, and Mycroft had a sinking suspicion that Sherlock was admitting to something else entirely.

He glanced back at Bunny, who was rubbing at an eye, sleepy as he ran his fingers over the belly of his stuffed rabbit. This was not a conversation for the baby to hear, and Mycroft stepped back to cover his ears. 

“This was…” Mycroft paused, attempting to find the right words. “...a planned occurrence?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable about having this conversation with his big brother. Bunny turned to glance up at Mycroft, perhaps confused as to why the man still had his hands pressed against his ears, but Mycroft kept his hands firmly on either side of the boy’s head. John may have taken part in some rather adult acts with Sherlock, but Mycroft was not about to let Bunny hear something so sexually charged. 

“I wouldn’t say planned, exactly,” Sherlock said, eyes flicking up from where he was staring at the floor. “But I was rather decidedly not little.” 

“And John?” 

“Very happily adult as well, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Despite what you may think, there are activities that John doesn’t actually need you for, brother mine.” 

It was clear the man had decided to settle firmly into his earlier snarkiness, but Bunny began to shift in his place on the sink, and because Mycroft needed to get the boy cleaned up and out of his wet clothing and because Sherlock tended to be even less rational in his teenaged-self than his adult, he chose not to address the sass.

Either Sherlock would have done anything to escape the interrogation or perhaps the embarrassment had made him slip a bit further, because the consulting detective obeyed immediately when Mycroft told him to go to strip his bed of the wet sheets and bring him the bag Mycroft had left in the bedroom.

“Let’s get you all cleaned up, ladybug,” Mycroft said after releasing his hands from where they were pressed against Bunny’s ears and leaning to kiss his forehead.

Mycroft got Bunny undressed and into the bath quickly, knowing the boy most needed to be cleaned, comforted, and put to bed. He would most like to get both Sherlock and John away from the distractions of Baker Street by bringing them to his house, but he was not going to leave Sherlock alone in his current state, and it remained to be seen whether he would agree to leave. 

Sherlock shuffled in to drop off the bag Mycroft had packed and then shuffled back out to the hallway. 

Bunny was pliable in the warm water as Mycroft maneuvered his body, his pacifier ever in his mouth until Mycroft coaxed it out to properly wash the boy’s tear-stained face. When Bunny’s eyes lingered behind his shoulder, Mycroft turned to realize Sherlock was still just outside the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

“Everything alright, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, running a washcloth along Bunny’s arms.

Sherlock nodded, but did not move from his place. It seemed clear the boy was fighting between wanting independence and wanting to keep Mycroft and Bunny company, to watch the interactions between them without fully inserting himself into the roleplay. Mycroft turned back to Bunny. Extra attention would only send Sherlock away. 

“Close your eyes, kiddo,” Mycroft said as he began rubbing shampoo into Bunny’s hair.

By the time Mycroft was finished running water to rinse Bunny’s hair free of shampoo, Sherlock had taken a few steps farther into the bathroom.

“Mycroft?” he asked.

Mycroft turned over his shoulder to glance at Sherlock.

“Yeah, bud?” he asked, testing out a pet name to gauge Sherlock’s headspace.

“I have to pee,” he said from his place just inside the doorway, still shifting in place.

“Go ahead, buddy,” he said, and Sherlock stepped to the toilet.

If only Sherlock would agree to a bath himself, Mycroft knew he could have him fully little in no time. As it was, he simply had to let the boy call the shots. His hovering was a good sign that he was feeling a bit vulnerable. Mycroft helped Bunny out of the bathtub and wrapped him in a waiting towel.

“Wash your hands, Sherlock." 

His brother obeyed, then moved back to his post by the doorway, watching out of the corner of his eye as Mycroft dried Bunny off and released the drain in the bathtub. 

It was Sherlock who heard footsteps first, turning to glance down the hallway. Soon after, they all heard the door opening, and Greg’s voice ringing out down the hallway.

“Where are my boys?” he called.

Bunny turned to glance up at Mycroft with wide, excited eyes. Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at Mycroft as if it had been his idea to invite the Detective Inspector.

“Papa!” Bunny called, rushing out of the bathroom in nothing more than the towel wrapped around his shoulders. 

Mycroft smirked as he walked from the bathroom to find Greg--still in his coat--with an armful of half-naked John. He could see that Greg was exhausted--he’d been working himself far too hard in order to please a new superior--but, with Bunny in his arms, he could see Greg was at least content, comforted.

“Do you want to choose your jammies, Bun, or want me to do it?” Mycroft asked, holding Bunny’s old favorite pair of lion pajamas in one hand and the new nightgown he’d bought for the boy in the other. 

“Papa choose,” Bunny said, leaning into Greg’s shoulder.

Greg smiled, brushing the wet hair from the the boy’s forehead.

“Well,” he said, making a show of deciding that made Mycroft roll his eyes at the syrupy sweetness of it all. “This little one is brave like a lion, but he needs his pretty nightgown if he’s going to be Papa and Daddy’s little princess, right?”

Bunny giggled and nodded as Mycroft handed Greg the new flannel nightgown--yellow with a fuzzy bunny on the chest. He was grateful the boy was too tired to question the pull-up Mycroft helped him into, and things felt a bit back to normal once they had a clean, sleepy kiddo in his nightgown lifted back into a smiling Greg’s arms. 

Bunny lifted the sleeve of his nightgown to wipe his still-running nose. 

“Dont’ use your sleeve, lady bug,” Mycroft admonished, grateful when Greg intercepted and only mildly disgusted when the man used his own bare hand to wipe the kid’s nose. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Head hurts,” Bunny mumbled as Mycroft swapped the boy’s thumb for a pacifier and handed Greg a tissue. 

He placed his palms against the boy’s cheeks and then the back of his hand against his forehead. The boy did feel clammy, his forehead warm and cheeks flushed. He glanced up at Greg, eyebrow raised. 

“He does feel a bit overheated,” Greg mused. “Could just be the bath, though.”

“Sherlock?” Mycroft called to the boy hovering in the hallway between kitchen and bathroom. “Are you feeling okay?”

Sherlock, arms still crossed as he eyed Greg and Mycroft through a furrowed brow, shrugged. Mycroft shared a look with Greg which conveyed the struggles he’d been facing with Sherlock’s moodiness since arriving.

“Hey, champ,” Greg called to Sherlock, as usual attempting to bring some positivity into the situation. “Missed you.” 

Sherlock glared, then turned and retreated into his bedroom.

“Tired, Papa,” Bunny said with a yawn, drawing Mycroft and Greg’s attention back to their youngest. “Wanna go sleep.” 

“Okay, sweetheart,” Mycroft said, vowing to keep an eye on John and Sherlock to assess whether or not they were coming down with something. “Just close your eyes and try to sleep. We’ll get you to bed, soon.”

“Want to put them down here?” Greg asked, voice low as Bunny’s rested his head on his shoulder and Greg rested his hand on the back of Bunny’s head. “Or take them back to yours?”

Mycroft sighed. 

“I’d like to give them a change of scenery” he said. “But I’m not sure Sherlock will go without a fight.”

“I could stay here with Sherlock,” Greg said. “Camp out on the couch for the night while you take the baby back to yours.” 

Mycroft shook his head and began fishing in his pocket for his house keys. 

“You take Bunny back to mine and I’ll see what I can do to get Sherlock there before morning,” he said, passing over his keys. “I have a sense he’s still feeling a bit jealous of Bunny after the weekend at the lake house. I need him to know I’m not going anywhere.”

“Okay, Daddy,” he said, leaning over to kiss Mycroft, who, after rolling his eyes, kissed him back with a smirk.

Mycroft and Greg managed to get Bunny out of the flat without too much fuss, Greg shouldering the bag Mycroft packed with Bunny’s things as Mycroft calmed some slight whining from an overtired Bunny who didn’t like the idea of being without either his Daddy or his Papa and then convinced Sherlock to come give his little brother the goodnight kiss he was asking for. He closed the door behind them as Bunny was carried down the staircase by Greg, the almost-forgotten baby blanket draped around Greg's neck and the stuffed rabbit tucked between Bunny's chin and Greg's chest. 

"See you soon," Greg called quietly from the base of the stairs. Then, with a smirk and a wink: "Good luck."


	6. Giving in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick update because you've all been waiting--I hope you're all well!
> 
> Next chapter will have all the boys back together, again :)
> 
> Thanks so much for your kind comments and feedback--I'll respond to them asap!

Sherlock sat on the couch with his legs crossed, the quilt from his bed wrapped around his shoulders and up over his head, watching telly. 

“You can leave, now,” he called into the kitchen, where Mycroft was washing dishes. 

His brother ignored him in favor of adjusting the faucet and scrubbing at a dirtied plate Sherlock knew to have been sitting at the bottom of the sink for over a week. Mycroft had been cleaning ever since Greg had carried John out of the flat, organizing and tidying up while Sherlock stalked around the apartment, attempting to express his displeasure at Mycroft’s presence through huffs and glares. Mycroft had paid him little mind, going about his tasks with little more than fleeting glances at Sherlock.

And so Sherlock had camped himself in front of the telly, stubbornly refusing to settle down to bed if it meant somehow signalling his approval of his brother’s presence. Sherlock was not a child at the moment; he did not need Mycroft coddling him.

He sneezed and rubbed his nose on the back of his wrist. Maybe Mycroft was right and he and John were actually coming down with a cold. And even if it was only the suggestion of illness that, at the moment, was causing Sherlock to feel congested and foggy, if John truly was sick, Sherlock certainly wasn’t immune, not after making out for so long the night before. 

He cocooned himself further into the quilt when Mycroft--dishes completed--came into the living room. He was carrying Sherlock’s stuffed dinosaur, Dimitri, which he placed on the couch cushion beside Sherlock. 

Sherlock began to speak up, moved to push the plush toy off of the couch, but Mycroft spoke first.

“Do you remember when we were kids?” he asked, taking a seat on the far end of the couch from Sherlock. “And you were eight or nine, maybe, and had been invited to a sleepover for some classmate’s birthday?” 

Sherlock grunted. He’d begged to go despite his parents initial reservations, at that point still desperate to fit in with the other boys in his class, still believing he could be like them if he tried hard enough. His Father and Mother had eventually come to the conclusion that it would be good for him to socialize with children his own age, and were pleased that he had received an invite, which he never had before. Sherlock had been too embarrassed to tell them that every boy in the class had been invited, too afraid they would rescind their consent and make him stay home. 

It was Mycroft who was most against the idea--Sherlock had heard him discussing it with their parents one night after he’d been put to bed, insisting that it would not turn out well. But their parents shrugged off his concerns, and the next day Sherlock was told to pack a bag for the sleepover. 

“You’d never been to a sleepover before,” Mycroft said, sipping from a cup of tea he’d made for himself. “I could tell you were nervous before leaving.”

Sherlock had been nearly sick to his stomach, desperate to be one of the boys but afraid he would say the wrong thing or fall asleep sucking his thumb or piss in his sleeping bag. He was afraid he’d only been invited as a prank, that the other boys would spend the entire night teasing or playing tricks. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft had said as Sherlock left for the sleepover, turning from his math homework when Sherlock passed his room. “Call me if you need anything.”

“It turned out you were fine,” Mycroft said from his spot on the couch.

Sherlock scoffed. 

“Only because you’d slipped those comic books into my duffel bag,” he said. “Before I found them no one had said more than two words to me.” 

Mycroft turned to Sherlock.

“I didn’t sleep that entire night,” he said, placing his tea cup and saucer on the table beside him. “It’s always worried me when I don’t know that you’re okay.”

Sherlock sighed, understanding why Mycroft had brought up a story Sherlock had only vaguely remembered. 

“I’m fine, Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “Really.”

Mycroft moved to sit a bit closer to his brother, reaching out to hold his chin and turn his brother’s face towards him. 

“How old are you feeling right now, Sherlock?” he asked. “Be honest.”

Sherlock groaned in the back of his throat and pulled the quilt farther over his head as he leaned to lay against the arm of the couch. He had been able to keep himself from slipping, had been adamant about staying adult. But here was Mycroft, close and his alone, and Sherlock could feel himself acutely aware of his plush dinosaur and the newly washed sippy cups Mycroft had left overturned in the drying rack next to the sink. 

“Buddy, look at me, please.”

Mycroft’s voice was firm, but kind, and Sherlock found himself shifting from leaning against the arm of the couch to leaning against Mycroft, his head suddenly in his brother’s lap. 

“How old, kiddo?” Mycroft asked, and Sherlock shrugged.

“Twelve or eleven,” Sherlock mumbled from beneath the blankets, “maybe.”

Mycroft nodded and moved the quilt off of Sherlock’s face.

“Not too old for Dimitri, then,” he said, pulling the plush dinosaur from its place on the couch and placing it onto Sherlock’s lap as he brushed mussed hair out of his brother’s face.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his relentless brother, who just would not give up. He had half a mind to leave the couch and tell his brother once more to leave him alone, but Sherlock was tired, his nose was running and his head ached to the point that he was beginning to think he really was coming down with a cold, and it was far easier to pull Dimitri to his chest and bury his head back into the blankets on Mycroft’s lap.

“Don’t feel good, Mycroft,” Sherlock said through a yawn. 

Mycroft placed his hand on Sherlock’s forehead

“I know, bud. I think you and Bunny may be stuck in bed for the next few days.”

“No no no,” Sherlock whined, hiding his face behind Dimitri and forgetting to force himself to stay older. “I’m not sick and Bunny’s not sick.” 

“Okay, okay,” Mycroft said, hefting Sherlock--still bundled in his blanket--up off the couch and into his arms with a groan. “Let’s get you into some warmer clothes and get you to sleep.”

Sherlock’s head was against Mycroft’s shoulder and he did not protest when Mycroft slipped a pacifier between his lips. 

“Sherlock, sit up for a moment, bud,” Mycroft said as he settled Sherlock onto the bed and unwrapped him from his blanket cocoon. “I have some new jammies for you.”

Sherlock’s half-lidded eyes slid open when he caught sight of the new shark pajamas Mycroft had placed beside him on the mattress, and he reached to pull them on with a grin. He pulled out his pacifier, dropping it onto the bed beside him.

“I can do it,” he said, beginning to pull off the t-shirt and sleep pants he’d gone to bed in. 

“Hang on, big boy,” Mycroft said, standing back to supervise. “Let’s get you into a pull-up before you get dressed.”

Sherlock shook his head and moved--half dressed--to the dresser on the other side of the room. 

“Don’t need them,” Sherlock insisted, pulling out a pair of his cartoon dinosaur briefs and beginning to yank off his boxer briefs. “I’m a big boy.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warned. “You’re not feeling well. It’s probably a good idea to be safe tonight. You can wear your big boy underwear tomorrow morning if you’re still feeling big, okay?”

Sherlock finished pulling on his briefs and crossed his arms over his chest.

“No,” he said, then returned to the side of the bed and yanked on his new shark pajamas. “I’m not a baby.” 

Sherlock could see that Mycroft was going to argue, that he was getting ready to insist that Sherlock wear a pull-up to bed. There was only one way to distract him at the moment, only one way to get him to stop the fight.

“Tired, Mycroft” he said, snuggling close and placing his thumb into his mouth. “Can we go see Bunny and Papa?”

Sherlock grinned his most innocent smile. Mycroft had shown his hand earlier while he thought Sherlock had not been paying attention. He clearly wanted the little family together at his house, and Sherlock had chosen just the right moment to suggest exactly that. 

Mycroft sighed, glancing down at Sherlock knowingly. It was clear he knew the ploy Sherlock was attempting. 

“You’re too manipulative for your own good,” he said, rubbing a hand over Sherlock’s back with a sigh. “Okay, let’s get you home.”

Now that Sherlock had avoided the prospect of the pull-up, he settled back onto the bed and made Mycroft do the work of gathering his things and carrying him out to Mycroft’s waiting car. He may be slipping down in age, settling back into his younger self, but he would always have a bit of stubborn teenager in him, needy and cunning. 

“I’m proud of you, Sherlock,” Mycroft said once Mycroft had given his driver instructions to take him home and he and Sherlock were snuggled together in the back seat, comfortably on their way across the city.

Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft with his eyebrows furrowed, taking his thumb out of his mouth.

“Of me?” he asked, and Mycroft nodded.

“Of you,” he said, passing over a sippy cup he must have filled before carrying Sherlock downstairs. “You took care of Bunny when he needed it earlier tonight, and you called for help when you saw he was in trouble. You were a very good big brother, tonight.”

Sherlock shrugged and hid his face in Mycroft’s chest as his brother kissed the top of his head. He was uncomfortable with the praise. But he could not help but let Mycroft’s words warm him, could not help but believe he'd been a good boy. It had been a trying night, and a trying few days. But Sherlock had Mycroft all to himself for the moment, and, for now, that was enough.


	7. Nighttime Troubles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, lovelies--hope you're all doing well! 
> 
> Thank you for your comments and kudos, as always--you're all truly the best at encouraging and inspiring. 
> 
> This is a long chapter filled with comfort and fluff and needy little boys. Hope you all enjoy!
> 
> P.S. I finally caved and got a tumblr. You can find me at [Your Little Ficlets](https://your-little-ficlets.tumblr.com/) for upcoming ficlets and one-shots related to ageplay/omorashi that will likely be linked to this series.
> 
> Sending bunny kisses :)

Greg had gotten Bunny to bed and asleep after little more than a sippy cup of warm milk and a storybook. He sat on the edge of the boy’s bed for a few moments after he’d dozed off, knowing the boy wasn’t feeling well and rubbing his back to ensure he fell into a deep, lasting sleep before standing from the bed. He left the boy alone, leaving the door cracked open and flicking on the moon-shaped nightlight.

Mycroft really had gotten creative with decorating each of the spare bedrooms for the boys. Bunny’s room had been painted a pastel yellow, and Mycroft had managed to find a duvet cover decorated with sleeping forest creatures--fawns, bear cubs, wolf cubs, and baby bunnies--among scattered trees, stumps, and leaves. On the window seat at the far side of the room were throw-pillows decorated with images from the night sky, the dark blue contrasting with the pale yellow of the walls. Bunny--snuggled beneath the new duvet with his stuffed rabbit, Willa, and his Peter Rabbit pacifier, looked perfectly content. 

Mycroft and Sherlock arrived home as Greg flipped absentmindedly through the channels on the telly in the living room, yawning. He was exhausted; it had been a long day and a particularly busy few weeks. But he had not wanted to go to sleep after Mycroft had texted to let him know he was on his way with Sherlock. He would wait up and make sure all was well first. 

“He fell asleep on the way over,” Mycroft whispered when Greg, after hearing the front door open, met him in the foyer. “I’d guess he hasn’t slept well in more than a few days.”

“I’ll carry him up,” Greg whispered, lifting Sherlock out of Mycroft’s arms and into his own. 

Mycroft nodded, and, after dropping his coat off on the coat rack, followed Greg to the second floor and into the bedroom Mycroft had set up for Sherlock. The duvet cover Mycroft had found for Sherlock’s room was a nautical map covered in sailing ships following dotted lines showing each ship’s trajectory, and there were throw pillows shaped like boat anchors and whales scattered on the bed and the windowseat. There was even a treasure map rug beneath the desk next to the window. 

It was adorable; Mycroft had given their little bunny a forest wonderland and their little pirate an ocean adventure. Greg smirked, vowing to tease his boyfriend for the lengths he’d gone to to make their boys happy just as soon as doing so didn’t have the potential to wake up their overtired child. 

Mycroft tossed aside the throw pillows and pulled back the duvet and the sheets so Greg could settle Sherlock into bed. Sherlock was sleeping soundly, and Greg was pleased to see the boy had let his guard down enough to accept his pirate pacifier. 

“He refused to put on a pull-up, earlier,” Mycroft whispered as he crossed the room to the dresser on the wall opposite the bed and, opening the top drawer, pulled out a Goodnite.

Greg sighed as he tucked the sheets and blankets up beneath Sherlock’s chin. He knew if they attempted to undress the boy and get him into a pull-up they’d have an awake, grumpy kid on their hands that would likely take far longer than they would like to get back to sleep. Greg was ready to settle into bed with Mycroft knowing their kids were lost in dreams; he wasn’t sure he was up for more drama that night.

“Is the mattress protected?” he asked. “I’d rather not risk waking him when he’s finally sleeping soundly.”

Mycroft nodded, but looked skeptical. 

“There’s a plastic sheet on his mattress and on Bunny’s, just in case,” Mycroft said, “Even so. You know as well as I that it’s far easier to deal with a wet pull-up than wet sheets.”

Greg sidled up to Mycroft and wrapped his arms around his chest from behind. 

“Let’s go to bed,” he said, resting his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder. “I’m sure Sherlock will be fine.”

Mycroft twisted around and looked at Greg with an eyebrow raised. 

“Have you met my little brother?” he asked. “The man can hardly keep himself dry in his day-to-day life, nevermind a night he’s finally allowed himself to slip into headspace after fighting against it for more than a few days.”

Greg leaned forward, hugging Mycroft and pressing his forehead in the crook of the man’s neck. He was extremely happy that their little family was all together again. But he knew that two young kiddos both coming down with colds meant the next day would bring fresh challenges, and at the moment all he wanted was sleep.

“I’ll deal with any wet sheets if it comes to that,” he said, continuing to keep his voice low. “Let’s just go to bed, now.”

“Is that a promise?” Mycroft asked, pulling away from Greg’s touch until he looked him in the eye.

“Pinky swear,” Greg said, smirking as he held up his pinky. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes but sighed, relenting. 

“You’re going to regret this,” he warned in a whisper, but Greg only stepped close again to Mycroft and kissed him.

He fell into bed the moment they arrived at the master bedroom, and he was asleep before Mycroft had even turned out the lights.

\--- 

Greg woke in the middle of the night with a groan when Mycroft elbowed him in the ribs.

“Mycroft?...Papa?...”

“I believe that’s for you,” Mycroft mumbled, voice husky from sleep yet filled with smug amusement.

The room was dark and the space under the blankets warm and comfortable, but Greg could hear one of the boys just outside their bedroom door, and knew he would not be returning to sleep anytime soon. He forced himself awake with a large intake of breath, propping himself up on an elbow as he allowed his vision to adjust to the darkened room. In the glow of the nightlight from the hallway bathroom, he could just make out Sherlock’s hunched form hovering in the doorway, stuffed dinosaur dangling from one hand.

“Sherlock?” Greg asked. “Are you okay, kiddo? What do you need?”

Sherlock hesitated, mumbling something to himself.

“You gotta speak up, bud,” Greg said, praying the issue was one he could solve without leaving the comfort of bed.

“I, um...I...I hadda accident,” Sherlock said, voice small and timid, as if the kid were on the verge of tears.

Mycroft snorted into his pillow, and Greg could not help but kick his boyfriend under the covers. He didn’t need to be given Mycroft’s _I told you so_ stare to know that it was exactly what Mycroft was thinking.

“That’s okay, buddy,” Greg said, attempting to mask his frustration as he hoisted himself out of bed with a groan. 

He should have known better. Mycroft had been right, per usual when it came to Sherlock. The man had some of the finest instincts he’d ever come across. No wonder; he was a Holmes brother, after all. But none of that mattered now; Greg had set his own terms earlier that night, and now he had to follow through. 

Sherlock was close to tears and very clingy, attempting to scamper up into Greg’s arms as soon as Greg was near. Greg was hoping to get things taken care of as quickly as possible, and that meant keeping himself from getting wet if he could. He gently guided Sherlock away from him, placing a hand on his shoulder and turning to lead him down the hallway. 

“Let’s get you clean first, bud,” he said, “and then we can cuddle a bit before you go back to sleep.”

Sherlock whined but allowed himself to be led down the hallway. He was coughing, and wiped his runny nose on the back of his hand. It was clear as Greg guided him towards his new pirate bedroom that the kid was coming down with the same cold he suspected Bunny had. Sherlock stopped in front of the bathroom doorway and pointed inside. 

“Bath,” he whined.

Greg sighed, turning to face the boy.

“It’s really late, kid,” he said. “How about we just get you cleaned up with some wipes and fresh sheets? You can take a bath tomorrow after breakfast if you’d like.”

Sherlock pouted and dissolved into a tearful coughing fit.

“Please bath,” he pleaded when he’d recovered enough to speak.

Greg sighed but stepped into the bathroom and turned on the faucet in the bathtub. He would need a few moments to get Sherlock’s sheets changed and to find some clean pajamas for the boy; it wouldn’t be the worst idea to have Sherlock occupied while he got things settled. Besides, he was a kid once, too, and he remembered how uncomfortable and disconcerting it could be to wake up in a wet bed, not to mention feeling sick. If Sherlock was allowing himself the outlet of emotion, Greg needed to listen to what the boy most needed. 

“Just a quick one,” he said, using a stern voice to ensure Sherlock knew not to argue back. 

Sherlock nodded and began twisting knobs to adjust the water temperature, still wiping tears from his cheeks and his runny nose on the back of his hand. Greg had to divert the boy away from the cabinet beneath the sink, where he knew Mycroft had stashed bath toys, and instead began undressing him as the tub filled. 

“It’s not time for playing,” he explained as he stripped the boy of his pajama shirt and then helped him step out of his sopping wet trousers and cartoon underwear. The boy’s skin was warm to the touch. 

Sherlock, although sniffling and whimpering a bit, did not argue or complain; he simply allowed Greg to guide him into the bathtub and obeyed when Greg held a tissue to his nose and asked him to blow. 

It was a slight point of contention between Greg and Mycroft, the way Greg could get Sherlock to cooperate in ways Mycroft could not. The boy was often a more well-behaved child when in the care of Greg, less combative and argumentative than when he was with his brother. Greg assumed the juxtaposition had to do with the fact that Greg didn’t have the same level of history with Sherlock as Mycroft did. Even as Sherlock’s caretaker, Mycroft had to combat years of competition and power struggles. Greg, on the other hand, could simply be an authority figure, something Sherlock desperately needed.

By the time Greg got the boy settled into a full bathtub, he was so impressed with Sherlock’s compliance that he conceded and retrieved a few plastic shark toys from beneath the sink.

“That’s a good boy,” he said, and Sherlock ducked his head against the praise yet accepted a shark in each hand with a small grin. 

“Will you be okay for a few minutes while Papa goes to take care of your bed?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded as he moved the sharks around underwater, bumping them into each other and then squeezing them to take water into their bellies. He squirted water along the side of the tub next to him, giggling gently before coughing once more. Greg counted himself lucky that Sherlock had woken up young and quiet. He didn’t like the fact that his boys were both sick, but he did find it a relief that Sherlock was too tired to second-guess his behaviors and force himself older. The warm tub was good for Sherlock’s congestion as well as his mental state, and was already setting the boy back into a sleepy complacency.

“I’ll be right back, peanut,” Greg said, hoisting himself from where he had been kneeling on the bathmat before gathering Sherlock’s soiled clothing as well as Dimitri the dinosaur from the tile floor. “Wash up and we’ll get you back to bed, okay?” 

In Sherlock’s room, he turned on the small desk lamp, tossed the pajamas into the laundry hamper, and began to strip the bed. The boy had soaked through his sheets and the woven blanket Mycroft had made the bed with, but luckily the boy’s comforter had been spared. He found some clean blue sheets in the linen closet across from the bathroom, and after a quick wipe-down of the plastic sheet, Sherlock’s bed had been re-made and Greg was gathering fresh pajamas and the ever-important pull-up to take back into the bathroom.

When Greg stepped into the bathroom, he could not help but smile. The boy was asleep against the back of the tub, plastic sharks left abandoned in the water. Greg was inclined to find his mobile and snap a few pictures of Sherlock looking so innocent and sweet, but the most important task at the moment was getting the boy back to bed. He clearly needed sleep. 

Greg assumed Sherlock had not done much washing up, so he found a washcloth and began bathing the boy, making quick work of it and choosing to forego washing his hair. 

“Tired, Papa,” Sherlock mumbled, eyes blinking open when Greg was nearly finished. 

“I know, kiddo,” Greg said, putting aside the washcloth and lifting Sherlock from the bathtub.

The boy whined against the cold until Greg wrapped him up in a large towel, running his hands up and down the boy’s arms to warm him up. Sherlock leaned his head against Greg’s chest, closing his eyes once more. He blinked awake with a fresh wave of coughing, eyebrows furrowed and voice whiny when he next spoke.

“Don’t feel good,” he said.

“I know, buddy,” Greg said, holding out the pull-up for Sherlock to step into and then dressing him in a fresh pair of dinosaur pajamas before releasing the drain on the tub and lifting the boy into his arms.

He searched in the medicine cabinet for some cough medicine and then carried the boy back to his room and lay him in bed. Sherlock immediately snuggled up to his plush animals and put his thumb in his mouth, bringing his legs up to his chest, making himself as small as possible.

“Sit up for just a minute and take this for me, ‘Lockie,” Greg said as he measured out the correct dose of cough medicine.

Sherlock whined but allowed himself to be lifted into a sitting position. Greg coaxed the boy’s thumb from his mouth and held up the dosage cup of cough medicine, which Sherlock sipped in his sleepiness but then spluttered and cried about when he realized what he was taking and Greg made him swallow it down.

“All set, good boy,” Greg said, laying Sherlock back down and settling the blankets beneath his chin. 

He brushed the hair back from Sherlock’s face and, seeing the pirate pacifier on his nightstand, worked the boy’s thumb out from between his lips and substituted the pacifier, which Sherlock took eagerly. The boy was clean, medicated, and back into a dry bed, and it hadn’t taken longer than 20 minutes or so. Greg walked across the room to turn off the desk lamp, grateful that all was well and that he could get back to bed himself.

“...Papa?” 

Greg sighed and closed his eyes. He had been so close to getting back to sleep. The voice was Bunny’s this time, coming through the opened door leading from one bedroom to the next.

“Hey, pretty princess,” Greg whispered as he stepped through the doorway and into Bunny’s room. 

The boy was sitting up in bed, stuffed rabbit hugged to his chest and pacifier between his lips. Even in the dimness of the room, Greg could see that the boy’s cheeks were flushed.

“Feel yucky, Papa,” Bunny mumbled around his pacifier, reaching up a hand to rub at an eye. 

Greg stepped close and held a hand against the boy’s forehead. He was warm to the touch, and Greg could hear from the boy’s stuffed nose that he was perhaps even more congested than Sherlock. 

“What hurts, baby?”

Bunny began to cry a bit as he pointed to his head and then his throat, and Greg could see that the boy was disconcerted from waking up in the middle of the night, that he was clearly feeling a bit nonverbal and more than a bit needy. 

“Oh, love bug,” Greg said, cupping the boy’s chin. “Let Papa get you some medicine, poor boy.”

Bunny mumbled something that sounded a bit like _not a boy_ , and Greg paused. Bunny had openly expressed his preference for what were often coded as feminine toys and pajamas, but he had never before suggested that he was anything other than Mycroft and Greg's little boy. Greg would be happy to have Bunny be their little girl if that was what he wanted. In fact, it was something Greg had suspected they may come to as Bunny became more and more comfortable expressing himself. But Greg had not wanted to initiate feminine pronouns without letting Bunny request them, and he had never before brought up the subject. 

"What was that, honey?" Greg asked in order to clarify, but Bunny only shook his head and whined.

"Medicine, Papa," he said. 

"Okay," Greg said, vowing to speak with Mycroft about what he might have heard and find the correct way to bring up the issue with their Bunny. 

He made his way back to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He didn’t see any cold medication readily available, but Mycroft had stocked the cabinet with both adult and children’s pain medication. Greg knew John could have benefited from an adult-strength pain reducer to help his head and his throat, but he knew Bunny would not be up for taking any pills at the moment. He measured out the children’s medication and carried it back into Bunny’s room.

Bunny had fallen back against his pillows and was rubbing against half-lidded eyes as he watched Greg enter the room again. 

"Bunny, you know you can talk with me or your Daddy about anything that's on your mind, right?" Greg asked, not feeling entirely comfortable having left the subject unfinished and still wondering whether what he thought he had heard was what Bunny had actually said. 

“Potty, Papa,” Bunny mumbled, eyebrows furrowed and voice worried.

Greg nodded, dropping the subject. The boy would never be able to listen or hold a conversation if he was in need of the loo. He would just need to save the topic for another time. 

“Okay, baby. Let’s take this medicine and then we’ll get you to the potty.”

Bunny shook his head, then yawned, his pacifier falling out of his mouth. 

“Potty now,” he said, sounding as if he were ready to cry once more. 

“Okay,” Greg said with an intake of breath. “Potty now.”

Greg placed the dosage of medication on the bedside table and flipped on the light beside the bed. Unfortunately, his elbow caught against the medicine cup he had just rested on the corner of the table, and he spilled the liquid pain medication onto the hardwood floor of the bedroom, just missing the rug placed beside Bunny’s bed. 

Greg swallowed a string of nasty language and grabbed tissues from a box across the room on the desk, sopping up as much liquid as he could. He left the tissues to absorb the sticky medicine and pulled back the sheets and blankets in order to help Bunny out of bed so they could visit the bathroom. But as he moved to lift the boy out of bed, he noticed a portion of the boy’s nightgown darkening, and a spreading wet patch on the sheets beneath where the boy lay. Greg sighed for what felt the twentieth time since being woken up by Sherlock.

Bunny seemed to realize what was happening just as Greg did. He reached a hand down to feel the wet fabric and, understanding that he was wetting his bed, dissolved into whimpering tears.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," he murmured.

“Hey, no tears,” Greg said, attempting to quiet the boy before he woke Sherlock once more. “Just a little accident. We’ll get you cleaned up in no time.” 

Luckily, Bunny accepted the pacifier Greg held up to his mouth, which quieted him despite the tears pulsing down the boy’s flushed cheeks. He managed to lift Bunny out of the bed and stand him on his feet beside the dresser drawers, where the boy finished peeing his nightgown and then looked up at Greg, pleading with him to help.

“Was wearing a pull-up, Papa,” he whimpered in confusion, already pulling his wet nightgown up towards his chest as if he wanted nothing more than to be free of the wet clothing.

“It leaked, princess,” Greg said by way of explanation, lifting the soiled nightgown up and over Bunny’s head and leaving the boy in nothing but a saturated, sagging pull-up. 

Greg wouldn’t have been surprised if the boy had already wet the pull-up earlier that night. The pull-up certainly seemed to be fuller than a single wetting, particularly given the amount of liquid which had spilled into the bed and into a puddle on the floor beneath Bunny. He should have checked if the boy was wet before putting him down to sleep. 

Thankfully, Bunny did not protest against being cleaned up with wipes and dressed in a fresh pull-up and nightgown. The new nightgown was long-sleeved with ruffled shoulders, a blue flannel covered in stars that Greg hoped would keep the boy warm enough. He carried the boy to the bathroom, where he sat him on the edge of the sink and poured out a new dose of medication which the boy drank down without any fuss. 

“What do you say about keeping your big brother company for the rest of the night?” Greg asked as Bunny dozed on his shoulder.

Bunny nodded absent-mindedly, and Greg asked him to be very quiet as they entered Sherlock’s room and Greg lay Bunny down on the opposite side of the bed from Sherlock. Bunny’s bed was a twin bed, which Mycroft had more than likely chosen in order to keep the boy from feeling lonely when sleeping in his own room, but Sherlock’s was a full, with plenty of space for both boys. Bunny always slept with Sherlock when they were at Baker street, and Mycroft must have anticipated that habit had not been entirely broken with their separate beds at the lake house. 

“Need blankie, Papa,” Bunny said, and Greg, nodding, held up a finger to signal to the boy that he’d have it for him in just a moment before slipping back into Bunny’s room. 

He found the baby blanket on the floor beside the head of Bunny’s bed, thankfully dry and free of any spilled medication. Bunny took it into his arms with a smile when Greg returned it to him and kissed him on the forehead.

“Get some sleep, my little princess,” he whispered, and Bunny nodded, nuzzling up against Sherlock, who was sleeping peacefully.

Greg wet a towel in the bathroom and wandered back into Bunny’s room to scrub drying medication from the floorboards and to mop up urine from the puddle Bunny had left next to the dresser. He stripped the boy’s bed quickly and deposited the wet sheets into the laundry hamper. He would re-make the bed with clean sheets and run both Sherlock and Bunny's wet sheets through the laundry tomorrow morning. For now, he wanted nothing more than to get back to his own bed for some much-needed sleep.


	8. Caring for Two Sick Babies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been far too long since I've updated, and this was written fairly quickly (read: unedited--hope there aren't too too many typos!), but please enjoy! Sending love to you all and thanking you for your kudos and comments.
> 
> A quick reminder that you can also follow me on tumblr, [here](https://your-little-ficlets.tumblr.com/), where I'll be posting ficlets and would love your requests for ageplay-based ficlet ideas! I posted a Christmas-themed ficlet set in the Little Brothers Mine world not too long ago, and plan to post another soon!
> 
> Sending Bunny kisses and wishing you all a great day! You're all the best, and you're all appreciated :)

The sky was just barely brightening when Bunny woke to Sherlock’s coughing. He turned over onto his side and buried his face into his pillow, feeling lethargic and achy all over. His head was pounding, his throat burned when he swallowed, and he could barely breathe through his congested nose. He spat out his pacifier because his mouth tasted funny, whining to no one in particular that he didn’t feel well. 

He could tell Sherlock was not any better off than he was; heat was radiating from his big brother’s body from beneath the blankets, and Sherlock’s cough was rough and pitiful. Willa the Rabbit had fallen onto the floor at some point during the night, but Bunny was too warm and miserable to reach down to get her, although he wanted her desperately. He wanted his Daddy and his Papa to come and make things right.

“It’s too hot,” Sherlock said, sitting up and stripping himself of his pajama shirt. He reached out and pushed Bunny in the shoulder. “Get away. This is my bed.”

Bunny was so unprepared for Sherlock’s push that he found himself suddenly tumbling off the bed and onto the floorboards. He was too tired and shocked to do anything but burst into tears, rubbing against the shoulder he had landed on as he pulled Willa the rabbit--who he could now reach--into his arms.

Bunny didn’t want to leave Sherlock’s room. He had wet his bed the night before and didn’t know if Papa had put clean sheets on his bed. Even if his bed was clean, Bunny felt too miserable and yucky to be alone. He wanted to be close to Sherlock if he couldn’t have Daddy or Papa.

Sherlock sighed and sat up to peer over the far side of the bed, coughing as he glared down towards Bunny.

“You’re such a crybaby,” he said.

He rolled his eyes and sat back up in order to kick off the blankets, his cheeks flushed and his movements jerky, signalling his frustration. Sherlock was far from an accommodating person even when he was feeling healthy; it was clear he would not be softening his approach now that he was sick.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock yelled after succumbing to a nasty streak of coughing, voice loud and shrill. “The baby’s crying!”

Bunny rubbed at his eyes and curled himself up into a ball. Crying made his throat burn, but he couldn’t stop the tears, despite trying. 

“I’m not a baby,” Bunny argued, feeling his upset shifting into anger before he could censor himself. “You’re the baby!”

Sherlock was leaning over Bunny’s side of the bed a moment later, reaching a long arm down to pinch Bunny hard on the forearm where the sleeve of his nightgown had ridden up to expose skin. The sudden jolt of pain had Bunny screaming and then sobbing, and he clamped a hand over the pinched skin and scurried under the bed to protect himself from Sherlock’s reaching fingers. 

Nothing was going well. He was sick and tired and didn’t want to be alone but Sherlock was mean. He had left his blanket on top of the mattress and he wanted to go climb into bed with his Daddy and Papa. But his head ached and his throat burned, and he was worried Sherlock would pinch him again if he climbed out from underneath the bed.

Bunny’s sobbing eventually settled into softer crying and finally into half-hearted sniffling. He felt closed in beneath the bed frame, and a bit claustrophobic, but if he closed his eyes he felt safe. He ran his fingers back and forth along the threads of the carpet his Daddy had picked out for beneath Sherlock’s bed, and soon he was slipping back into fitful bursts of sleep often bookended by Sherlock’s coughing fits, Willa the rabbit tucked beneath his chin and thumb tucked between his lips.

It was morning when he next woke, and when he blinked open his eyes he was face to face with his Daddy.

“Hey, lady bug,” he whispered, crouched down to peer beneath the bed towards Bunny. “What are you doing down there?”

Bunny mumbled that Sherlock didn’t want him sleeping with him and blinked back tears as he scrambled out from beneath the bed to press himself into his Daddy’s arms. 

“Feel yucky, Daddy,” he said, burying his face in his Daddy’s shoulder.

His Daddy guided him away from his chest in order to lay a hand on his forehead and then against his cheek. 

“I know, baby,” he said, voice quiet in the still dimly lit room. “It’s no fun being sick.”

Bunny whined in the back of his throat.

“Not a baby,” he insisted, pressing himself against his Daddy, who was running his fingers along his spine.

“Was your brother teasing you?” he asked, and Bunny didn’t answer, because he knew his Daddy had already figured out that he was, that the only reason Bunny became sensitive about being called ‘baby’ was when Sherlock chose to use it as a form of cruel teasing.

Sherlock seemed to have fallen back asleep, and Bunny was glad when his Daddy lifted him into his arms and carried him out of Sherlock’s room and into his own. 

“You’re sweating, kiddo,” Daddy said, sitting Bunny down on his unmade bed. The fact that Papa hadn’t put new sheets on Bunny’s bed made him blush, as he wound up sitting on the plastic sheet. “Let’s change you out of that nightshirt.”

“Undies, Daddy,” Bunny said when the nightgown had been pulled over his head, standing up off the bed and wiggling himself out of the sweaty pull-up. “Big kid.”

Bunny could see his Daddy wavering.

“You’re sick, bud. I think it might be a good idea to keep a pull-up on, just in case.”

Bunny shook his head. 

“No, Daddy. I’m big. Don’t need it.”

His Daddy sighed, but Bunny gave him his most pitiful, pleading look.

“Too hot for a pull-up, Daddy,” Bunny tried.

His Daddy relented. 

“You have to promise to tell me when you have to go potty, okay?”

Bunny nodded emphatically, smiling up at his Daddy as he pulled a pair of ladybug underwear from the top drawer. Bunny's eyes grew wide with appreciation. 

“Ladybugs!” He said loud enough to make his throat hurt. He grimaced and lowered his volume. “Thank you, thank you, thank you Daddy.”

Papa poked his head through the open doorway of Bunny’s bedroom while Mycroft was helping him step into his new underwear. They were reinforced with extra fabric at the crotch--training pants, something Bunny would have argued against if he weren’t so happy with the ladybug pattern. 

“How’s my little princess this morning?” Papa asked.

“Feel yucky, Papa,” Bunny said as he raised his arms for Mycroft to dress him in his Little Mermaid nightshirt. He was glad his Daddy had chosen something short-sleeved and thin; he was still feeling sticky with warmth. 

“His skin is ice cold but he’s been sweating and says he’s warm,” Daddy said, lifting Bunny back into his arms and handing him Willa the rabbit. “I think he may have a low-grade fever.”

“And the little pirate?” Papa asked.

“Still asleep, but grumpy from what I can ascertain.” Daddy pressed Bunny’s head to his chest and covered the ear not pressed against him, but Bunny could still hear what Daddy was saying to Papa. “I found Bunny on the floor, under the bed. He told me Sherlock didn’t want him sleeping with him.”

Papa sighed and Bunny was passed from Daddy’s arms into Papa’s. Bunny whined a bit, wanting his Daddy, but he was soon snuggled up in his Papa’s grasp and content enough to close his lips around his thumb and rest his head on Papa’s shoulder, simply pleased to have the comfort. He didn’t want to have to take care of himself today, not while feeling so sick. Papa rested his hand on Bunny’s forehead, testing his body temeprature just as Daddy had earlier.

“Can you take his temperature and give him some pain medicine for his head and throat?” Daddy asked. “I’ll check on Sherlock.” 

\----

Sherlock rolled over and groaned. He could barely breathe through his nose, and his chest hurt from the coughing he had been doing. He was angry and irritable, upset that Mycroft had not come to take care of him, yet. He took up Dimitri the dinosaur into his hand and threw him across the room. It felt good to see him slam against the wall and slide to the ground. 

Sherlock slunk back down onto his pillow, head aching.

“Mycroft,” he called for what felt the fifth or sixth time, and luckily he saw the bedroom door opening. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Mycroft said, stepping into the bedroom. “How are you feeling?”

“I called for you fifteen times and you didn’t come,” Sherlock said, surly as he turned his back to Mycroft, arms crossed as he burrowed down beneath the blankets. 

“I didn’t hear you, ‘Lock,” Mycroft said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “I wasn't ignoring you. I’m here now.”

Sherlock kicked at Mycroft from beneath the blankets, and Mycroft clucked his tongue in warning, which made Sherlock stop. He was frustrated and sick of being uncomfortable and unable to sleep because of his coughing fits, which of course Bunny didn’t seem to have. Everything always went Bunny’s way. 

“Can you come out from under the blankets for me?” Mycroft asked. “You must be very warm.”

“No, I’m not,” Sherlock argued, lying to his brother for the simple fact that he felt like causing trouble. “I’m cold.”

“Then let me help you get dressed in something a bit warmer,” Mycroft tried.

Sherlock huffed and threw the blankets off of himself, taking the opportunity to kick Mycroft once more while disguising the action as a desire to kick away the errant sheets. He had stripped himself earlier of his pajama top, and so lay bare-chested before his older brother.

“Cold, huh?” Mycroft asked, peering down at his half-naked form.

“Yes!” Sherlock said, emphatic and argumentative. “I don’t feel good.”

Mycroft hummed and turned to face his brother.

“I think maybe you’d feel a bit better if you let yourself get a bit younger, don’t you?”

“No!” Sherlock said, diving back towards his pillow and hiding his face, but his voice was whiny, and Sherlock could feel the pull to let himself give into a younger version of himself. 

“Okay,” Mycroft said, reaching to pat Sherlock’s hip until Sherlock pushed his lower body toward the other side of the mattress. “Do you want to stay up here, or would you like to come downstairs with me to see your Papa and your brother?”

Sherlock twisted his head a bit until he could look at Mycroft, who despite his teasing tone looked warm, eager to help. Sherlock was surprised Mycroft had not yet mentioned Sherlock’s teasing of Bunny, or the way he had pushed him off of the bed. But he wasn’t about to be the first one to bring up his own naughtiness. 

“Downstairs,” Sherlock mumbled, hoisting himself to a sitting position but then succumbing to a coughing fit. 

He began to cry when the coughing was finished, wiping his mouth. He didn’t want to be sick, and he hadn’t really wanted to get little. Now he was both, and there were too many feelings to process all at once. 

“Make it better, Mycroft,” he whined, sniffling through his tears and unsure whether he wanted Mycroft to make his illness better or to help him overcome his lingering hesitancy to be as little as he needed to be.

Mycroft gathered Sherlock onto his lap and let the boy cry for a bit. 

“I’m here for whatever you need, buddy,” he said. “And I think you would feel much better if you weren’t such a stubborn little monkey who won’t accept my help.”

Sherlock buried his face in Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“Not stubborn,” he said, pouting. “And not a monkey.”

Mycroft lifted Sherlock from the bed and carried him through the doorway leading to Bunny’s room, where he sat in a rocking chair which had been placed in the corner. Sherlock whined, arguing against being rocked like a baby, but Mycroft had a tight grip on him, and soon Sherlock was pressed against his brother’s chest as he rocked them back and forth again and again. 

“Not a baby,” Sherlock said, but he accepted the pacifier Mycroft held to his lips and, when Mycroft held out Dimitri the dinosaur, who he had rescued from where he had been tossed across the room, Sherlock latched onto the plush creature and tucked him beneath his chin.

“I’m glad you’re here, bud,” Mycroft said, nearly whispering. “Your Papa is too. We like taking care of you, and your brother likes it best when you're here.”

Sherlock squirmed when Mycroft spoke well of him. He disliked the sappiness and the attention. But he had to admit that Mycroft’s words had the effect of settling him, and he could feel a bit of hesitancy to accept Mycroft’s care slipping away. 

“I pinched Bunny,” Sherlock said, voice tinged with remorse. “And I pushed him out of bed.”

Mycroft sighed, but continued to rub his back as he rocked them back and forth. 

The rocking motion was soothing, causing Sherlock to feel sleepy and content, farther away from his doubts and self-inflicted shame. Maybe he could be smaller; it would certainly be nice to be taken care of while he was feeling so congested and achy. He felt less on-edge when he thought about slipping down further, less frustrated and liable to lash out. 

“I’m sure Bunny would appreciate an apology for those behaviors,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock was glad he was not punished, was once more reminded that Mycroft always knew exactly what Sherlock needed in the moment. If Mycroft had suggested that Sherlock slip lower, maybe he should trust his older brother’s instinct. 

The chair rocked them back and forth, and, with a contented sigh, Sherlock at last gave into his younger self. He allowed his mind to go a bit fuzzier, concentrating only on the feel of Mycroft beneath him and the back and forth motion of the rocking chair. He was comfortable and for the first time in what felt like hours did not feel on the verge of dissolving into a coughing fit. He hoped Mycroft would never make him get up out of the rocking chair. 

It was why, when he felt a stab of need, he released his heavy bladder into the pull-up Papa had dressed him in the night before without much hesitancy at all, releasing his urine into the padding. The warmth spread beneath and behind him, and although Sherlock still felt overheated, the warmth in the pull-up was a welcome comfort. He sighed, moaning a bit before he realized just how content the action had made him, just how much he had needed to go, and just how young he had become in the past few minutes. 

Mycroft seemed to understand what was happening even before Sherlock was finished. His hand paused for a moment where it had been rubbing along Sherlock’s shoulder blades, but he soon began again, and Sherlock assumed, if anything, he was probably relieved. He must know Sherlock had to be particularly young if he was wetting himself while straddling his brother’s lap. 

The pull-ups rarely held full wettings, and because Sherlock was eager to continue resting with Mycroft, he forced himself to find the older part of himself for just a moment, and stopped the flow of urine before he began to leak into his pants or onto Mycroft’s lap. He had released enough that he was no longer desperate to go and could simply relax himself against Mycroft, feeling the wet warmth of his pull-up pressed up against him. 

“We should get you changed into a diaper, little string bean,” Mycroft whispered.

“Five more minutes,” Sherlock pleaded, words slurred around his pacifier as he nuzzled against Mycroft's shoulder.

“Okay, kiddo,” Mycroft conceded, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair lazily. "Five more minutes."


	9. Bunny and the Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loves! Boy did Bunny want to be angsty in this chapter! But, let's be honest--he is dealing with some pretty heavy identity questions right now! Many of you will be happy to see toddler/baby Sherlock in this chapter, but this really is Bunny's chapter, so even though it's pretty long I couldn't focus on our little consulting detective too too much. 
> 
> I have minimal first-hand experience with questions of gender identity beyond my own proclivity towards opposite-gender items/interests while ageplaying, so please feel free to reach out/comment if there is anything you feel to be inauthentic/incomplete/inaccurate or unfairly stereotypical about what Bunny is going through in this chapter. I'd love to hear from any of you who have been through this first-hand and can give pointers or advice for approaching the topic both realistically and with sensitivity in this and future chapters.
> 
> Warnings for gender confusion and general angst, in case either of those topics may be triggering for you. 
> 
> Thanks for all your well-wishes, hits, and kudos, as always. You're all the best!

Papa made breakfast while Bunny tried not to fall asleep at the kitchen table. He had not gotten much sleep the night before, and the medicine his Papa had given him made his mind fuzzy and his eyelids heavy. 

The night before he had been constantly woken up by Sherlock’s coughing or his own sore throat--both before and after he’d been shoved from the bed and had taken refuge beneath it. Each time, it had taken him long minutes to fall back asleep, his waking mind consistently drifting to the questions and doubts he’d been contemplating since he’d mumbled to his Papa--who had come to give him medicine in the middle of the night--that he wasn’t a boy.

It was a thought Bunny had never put into words before, one that had occurred to him now and then but that he had never fully acknowledged. Now that the words had been said, they were all he could think about, and Bunny knew they were part of what contributed to his headache. Did he really not want to be a boy anymore? What did it mean if he wanted to be a girl? He was pretty sure Papa wouldn’t mind, but what about Daddy? What about Sherlock? And if he felt like a girl last night and today, did that mean he had to be a girl every time he was little? What if sometimes he still wanted to be a boy? 

He sighed, knuckling his tired eyes and resting his head on crossed arms on the kitchen table while he listened to Papa hum along to the radio. He didn't know how to put it all into words; he didn't know how to talk to his Papa or his Daddy. 

Bunny, when he glanced up, could see as soon as his Daddy stepped into the kitchen carrying Sherlock in his arms that Sherlock was littler than usual that day. The boy was clingy and whiny, not letting Mycroft place him down in the chair for breakfast unless he could sit in Mycroft’s lap. He cried when Mycroft took the pacifier out of his mouth, and only ate when Mycroft fed him little pieces of fruit off the end of his pirate fork. 

He sighed, pushing around the scrambled eggs on his baby animals plate without eating as he watched his Daddy and Sherlock with sideways glances. He usually didn’t mind when Sherlock was the little brother; in fact, it had been a bit fun when Sherlock had slipped down to be a baby back when they were at the lake house--Bunny had gotten to look out for Sherlock for once and didn’t have to worry about Sherlock’s big brother teasing. He’d been able to be himself, because Sherlock was too busy being extra little to care that Bunny wanted to play unicorns or color princesses in his coloring books. 

But being the big brother was harder than being the little brother. Being a good big brother took a lot of watching, thinking ahead, and accommodating. Bunny didn’t know if he had the energy to be the big brother while his throat hurt and his eyes and nose were all runny from what Papa had called a “nasty head cold," not to mention while suffering from an extreme lack of sleep and a confused, doubt-filled mind. 

Sherlock was latched onto Bunny’s Daddy like a monkey and it didn’t look as if he were planning to let go anytime soon. It wasn’t fair. Bunny wanted to be the littlest that day, wanted Daddy and Papa to snuggle him and look out for him while Sherlock’s teasing kept him small and vulnerable; he felt too fuzzy in his mind to be the big brother because he maybe just wanted to be the little sister. 

“Is your tummy bothering you, kiddo?” Papa asked, sitting at the head of the table after placing a sippy cups of orange juice in front Bunny and a half-filled baby bottle of orange juice in front of Sherlock. And since when did Sherlock drink from a bottle? “You’ve barely eaten a bite.”

Bunny turned his head from where he had been watching as his Daddy held the baby bottle to Sherlock’s lips, letting the boy latch on as he leaned his head against Mycroft’s chest. It didn’t make sense. 

He shrugged up at his Papa and let his fork drop on his plate. Maybe if he didn’t feed himself, Papa would do it for him.

But Papa only reached forward to brush the hair from his forehead and tell him that the medicine would kick in to make him feel better soon, then pushed himself from the table to answer his mobile when it rang.

“Daddy, Sherlock pinched me,” Bunny said in an attempt to turn his Daddy’s loving affection away from little Sherlock. He held out his forearm, pointing to where he could almost imagine a small red mark left by Sherlock’s grasping fingers. 

“He told me, sweetheart, and that wasn’t very nice of him,” Daddy said, guiding the nipple of the baby bottle away from Sherlock’s lips gently. “Sherlock, can you apologize to your brother for being naughty?”

Sherlock blinked up when the bottle was pulled away from him, disconcerted and confused. He turned his face towards Mycroft and whined, reaching towards the baby bottle and attempting to pull it back towards him. Mycroft held it just out of his reach. He was clearly waiting for Sherlock to apologize, but the boy seemed to be oblivious to anything but the last sips of watered down orange juice at the bottom of the bottle, and began to cry. Bunny thought Sherlock may be even more of a baby now than he had been back at the lake house. 

“I think your brother is just a bit too little right now to apologize, Bun,” Daddy said, relenting and guiding the bottle back to Sherlock’s lips. “Can you be a big boy and wait a little while for an apology?”

Bunny crossed his arms and ducked his aching head, his chin resting on his chest.

“Not a boy,” he mumbled softly into his chest, something that came without thinking, something he was too afraid to say loud enough for his Daddy to hear. 

“What was that, Bunny?” Daddy asked, glancing up from where he had been wiping tears from Sherlock’s face as the baby finished the bottle.

Bunny only shrugged, and he knew from the look on his face that his Daddy would have pressed the issue if Papa hadn’t come back into the kitchen with a sigh.

“Bad news, I’m afraid,” he said, slipping his mobile into the pocket of his pajama pants. “I’ve got to go into the station for a bit. There’s been a…”

Papa paused, as if realizing Bunny and Sherlock were blinking up at him and that he had two sets of little ears listening. 

“Something not so good has happened,” he said, adjusting his tone. “And I have to go in.”

Daddy nodded as Papa began picking up his breakfast plate. 

“Leave that,” Daddy said. “I’ll take care of it while you go get a shower. We’ll be okay.”

Bunny felt as if he might cry. It seemed he had already lost his Daddy to Sherlock for the day, and now he was going to lose his Papa, too? 

“I want to go with you, Papa,” Bunny said, rubbing his runny nose on the back of his wrist, an act for which Daddy gently chastised him as he passed him a napkin.

“Oh, princess,” Papa said, coming around the table to squat down next to where Bunny sat. “You need to stay here to get over that cold of yours. Besides, I’m sure your Daddy could use some help from a big kid like you to take care of Sherlock today.”

Bunny whined in the back of his throat as he reached towards his Papa for a hug. Didn’t Papa understand that he didn’t want to take care of Sherlock, that he didn’t want to worry about being bigger today? That he was sick and felt icky and all befuddled?

“Don’t go, Papa,” Bunny said, breaking down into tears and clinging to his Papa when he tried to put him down after cuddling him for a moment.

His Papa sighed, and although he was gentle, it was a shock and an insult when he pried Bunny’s arms from around his neck and forced himself away. Bunny dissolved into tears and felt himself go slack, slipping from the kitchen chair and onto the floor, where he suddenly found himself sobbing as he lay on the tiles and buried his face in his arms, curling into a ball and mumbling things he knew no one would be able to understand. 

“I’ve got him,” Bunny heard Daddy say. “We’ll be okay. You’ve got to go.”

“I’ll be back soon, princess,” Papa called over Bunny’s tears, reaching down to squeeze his shoulder in a makeshift goodbye, which only made Bunny cry more loudly. 

He didn’t want Papa to go. He wanted him to cuddle him and tell him it was okay to be a little girl today. Crying made his throat hurt, he couldn’t breathe through his stuffy nose, the tile floor was cold against his thighs and stomach when his nightshirt rode up, and he felt alone and needy. Everything was just too hard. 

“Please don’t go, Papa!” Bunny cried, and he knew he wasn’t being fair to his Papa, that it wasn’t Papa’s fault there were bad men and he had to go to work, but he couldn’t help it. He needed him. 

And then he was being lifted from the floor and into his Papa’s lap. Papa sat on the floor at Daddy and Sherlock’s feet and Bunny clutched fistfuls of his shirt as he cried into his chest. Papa was making soothing noises and rubbing Bunny’s back, and, for a moment, Bunny felt grounded and safe. 

But there was no denying that Papa was needed at work, and once Bunny’s sobbing had dissolved into quiet, sniffling tears, he tucked his head down and told him he had to go. 

“I promise to come back just as soon as I can, little one,” Papa said, and Bunny, defeated, nodded an okay. 

It had not slipped Bunny’s notice that his Papa had been calling him “kid” and “little one” since last night--no “boy” and not even a “buddy.” Maybe he would be able to tell Papa how confused he was feeling when Papa came home. Maybe Papa already knew.

“Let’s snuggle in the living room a bit, love bug,” Daddy was saying over him, his voice soft and assuring as he helped Bunny up off the floor by a hand because he was still carrying Sherlock.

Sherlock was as clingy as ever now that he had seen Bunny get upset, but Bunny was relieved that at least he wasn’t going to be put in time-out for his little outburst. He allowed himself to be led to the living room, where Daddy sat in the middle of the couch and helped Bunny up to his right side as he shifted Sherlock to his left. He reached to run his fingers through Bunny’s hair, and Bunny put his thumb in his mouth and allowed himself to focus only on the feel of his Daddy’s fingers and his Daddy’s heartbeat, which he could hear if he rested his ear against his chest. 

Papa was back in a few moments, dressed for work and pulling on his coat. Bunny felt guilty because it was clear Papa no longer had time for a shower given Bunny’s tantrum, but he was relieved that Papa had brought him his baby blanket and his pacifier, which he settled into Bunny’s mouth before leaning down to kiss him on the head.

“Goodbye, loves,” he said in a rush, going down the line to kiss Mycroft on the lips and then Sherlock’s head as he had Bunny’s. “Myc, text me if you need anything.”

Daddy nodded and Bunny blinked back a fresh wave of tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. He clutched Willa the rabbit and pressed himself beneath Daddy’s arm. Papa must have noticed Bunny’s continued distress, because he leaned down close and kissed him once more, this time on the cheek.

“Goodbye, my little princess lady bug,” he whispered. 

And then Papa was walking down the hallway, and Bunny heard the front door close behind him. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying not to admit to himself that he felt more alone than ever now that the one person he felt he could confess that morning’s confusing thoughts to had left. He wished Papa had talked to Daddy, or even that Sherlock was old enough to deduce that there was more on Bunny’s mind than his sore throat. 

“Let’s see if we can’t find something to cheer up my sick little boys,” Daddy said, flipping channels to find something kid-appropriate. 

Bunny lifted his head when he caught a quick glimpse of a cartoon that looked to be following colorful ponies on rainbows.

“Ponies, Daddy!” he said, tugging on his Daddy’s sleeve with a smile.

But his Daddy had gone past too quickly, and had landed on another cartoon, this one with dinosaurs, which had subsequently caught a now enraptured Sherlock’s attention.

“Dinosaurs, Dinosaurs!” he called, seeming fully conscious of his surroundings for the first time since coming down for breakfast. 

Daddy turned to Bunny and then to Sherlock, as if assessing which of the two should have the chance to choose. Bunny pouted and looked up at his Daddy with his best pleading eyes.

“Sherlock, love,” Daddy said, turning to his left. “Let’s all watch Bunny’s ponies, and then we can watch dinosaurs.”

But it seemed Sherlock’s sleepy complacency had dissipated, for as soon as Daddy turned the channel away from the dinosaurs, Sherlock broke down.

“No!” he shouted, voice loud and screeching, trying to reach for the remote in Daddy’s hand. “Dinos now! Now!”

The noise Sherlock was making was enough to cause Bunny to cover his ears and Daddy to flip off the telly entirely. 

“That’s enough, Sherlock, or you’re going into time out,” he said, sternly enough that Sherlock sucked in his bottom lip and stopped his screaming if not his whimpering. 

And then Daddy was standing up from the couch and walking out of the dark, wood-panelled living room. He began pacing back and forth in the hallway, back straight and head tilted towards the ceiling. It was clear Daddy was frustrated. Bunny knew that he had been giving them a bit of leniency because they were sick, but that he was not going to stand for an entire day of the type of carrying-on Bunny and Sherlock had been participating in to that point. 

They certainly hadn’t made it easy. Bunny thought for the first time that maybe even Daddies got a bit overwhelmed from time to time, especially if they didn't have their Papas to help. He glanced towards Sherlock, who looked small and nervous, then took his Peter Rabbit pacifier out of his mouth. 

“Daddy?” Bunny asked, voice tentative.

“What is it, Bunny?” Daddy asked from his position pacing the hallway. His voice was tight, the way grown-ups sounded when they were trying to pretend they weren’t angry or upset.

“We can watch the dinosaurs,” Bunny said. 

He wanted his Daddy to stop being angry, and if watching dinosaurs meant they could cuddle and Daddy would stop feeling annoyed, he would try to forget about how happy he had felt seeing the colorful ponies and just let Sherlock watch dinosaurs. 

Daddy stepped back into the room with a relieved sigh.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said. 

Bunny ducked his head as Daddy pulled a blanket over each boy, settled himself back between them, and leaned down to kiss Bunny’s head. Bunny pulled away from his Daddy’s kiss. He knew he was trying to thank him for being good and letting Sherlock have his way, but Bunny didn’t want to be thanked. He had given in to keep Daddy happy, but he was also tired of having to always be the one to give in, was tired of doing things to make others feel good when they only made him feel sad. 

As Daddy turned the telly back on, Bunny traced the outline of Ariel on his Little Mermaid nightshirt and ducked beneath the blanket settled over him to check on his ladybug underwear. They made him feel safe. He leaned his head against Daddy’s arm and closed his eyes, making up stories in his mind about the ponies he had seen on the telly, with lots of glitter and rainbows and ribbons.


	10. One Misbehaving Bunny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Loves! Thank you for all of your support and love! 
> 
> I'm not entirely happy with this chapter for a few different reasons. I must have jinxed myself by writing about Bunny and Sherlock getting sick because now I have a head cold that has come at a not so great time. Add in a lack of space and time to write and some general family drama and you've got the unlucky circumstances that birthed this chapter. Nevertheless, I wanted to get it to you all before we all get too busy with holiday events/shopping/celebrations, and sometimes you've just got to get the work out there and move forward. 
> 
> I don't have time at the moment to respond to comments, but rest assured that I will respond tomorrow asap, and that your comments truly bring me joy and keep me encouraged to write. I am appreciative of each and every one of them, no matter how trivial they may seem as you send them. I'm also super excited to see a few new readers commenting on the last chapter--I'll be responding to you all soon! 
> 
> Feel free to send along your requests for what you'd like to see next, and don't forget to check out my ficlets/ramblings about Sherlock on my Tumblr, [here](https://little-brothers-mine.tumblr.com/). I'm dying to do a few more Holiday-themed ficlets set in this universe, so I'm hoping to have the space to post one or two there in the next few days. 
> 
> Love to you all, and happy reading :)

Mycroft managed to get his boys through the next hour or so without any additional incident. Sherlock was giddy with excitement over watching the dinosaurs, his younger headspace allowing him to show true emotion where he was usually reserved. Bunny was quiet and distracted, which Mycroft assumed was a combination of not feeling well and being overtired from the events of the morning. 

He’d found the pony cartoon for Bunny to watch after Sherlock’s dinosaur show had finished, and managed to distract Sherlock from the fact that he was no longer in charge of the telly by taking him for a diaper change and then setting him up with some blocks on the carpet at his feet. 

Mycroft had placed himself behind the desk on the far side of the living room, knowing he had correspondence to answer and potential political headaches to keep from coming to fruition. As much as he would have liked to take off the entire day to care for the boys, he hadn’t properly planned for the boys to be young at the moment, and there were a few loose ends he needed to take care of in order to prepare for the possibility of extended time with them young.

“Bun, do you need the potty, sweetheart?” He asked as he sent off an email to a rather incompetent government higher-up. He’d just realized the boy hadn’t been to the loo all morning. He’d meant to take him after changing Sherlock’s diaper, but had been distracted by getting his little brother settled and content. 

Bunny glanced up from his spot snuggled with his blanket and bunny rabbit on the couch and shook his head. 

“No,” he said, and then, as an afterthought: “And you can’t make me.”

There had been a bit of hostility in Bunny’s countenance throughout the morning, from as early as his tantrum at the breakfast table. Mycroft has never cared for John while he was sick, but if he was always so moody while ill, he hoped for his own sake that the boy’s cold would leave his system sooner rather than later. At least Sherlock had allowed himself to age down; Mycroft wasn’t sure he’d be able to deal with the attitudes of both boys at once.

“Do you think it might be a good idea to try?” he asked, knowing that if the boy had an accident it would likely only lead to future tantrums. “You can show Sherlock what a big boy you are.”

It generally worked to appeal to Bunny’s sense of being grown-up and his sense of being a good brother to Sherlock, but Mycroft could see that today was not the ideal time for that tactic. The boy became even more frustrated. He glared at Mycroft and threw his sippy-cup to the ground. 

“I’m not!” he yelled as he hurled the cup to the ground. “Be quiet!” 

Mycroft sighed. 

Bunny didn’t generally crave or prompt discipline in the same way that Sherlock did, but maybe that was what he needed currently? Some firm attention and a chance to settle his mind during a punishment? Bunny had been pushing boundaries all morning; maybe he’d be up for finally telling Mycroft what was bothering him after a little quiet time. 

“We do not throw things in this house, young man,” Mycroft said, standing from the chair at his desk and crossing toward the couch. “You’ve earned yourself a timeout.”

Bunny fought when Mycroft tried to take away the remote control, yelling that he wanted to watch the ponies and hiding the remote between the armrest and his body, lifting his legs to signal that, should he come closer, Bunny was prepared to kick away his Daddy.

“You should have thought of that before you acted out,” Mycroft said, slipping into the type of stock parenting phrase he generally attempted to avoid. He was a bit off his game today.

Mycroft stood in front of Bunny with his hand extended, waiting for the boy to pass over the remote. He was not about to wrestle the boy for the object, so he simply stood until the kid had tired himself out with his arguing and shouting.

“Your four minute timeout has been extended to a five minute timeout,” Mycroft said when Bunny was quieting and had peeked over his shoulder back towards Mycroft. “If you don’t wish it to extend to a six minute timeout, I suggest you pass over the remote.” 

“You’re mean!” Bunny said, but he pushed the remote from the couch onto the floor and curled in on himself. 

Mycroft sighed and, after reaching to retrieve the remote, turned off the telly. Bunny was crying, his face buried in the crook of his crossed arms. He looked small and pitiful hiding his face against the arm of the couch, and Mycroft was almost regretful that the kid had a timeout coming to him. 

He reached down to run a hand along the kid’s back. He did not enjoy seeing the boy so clearly distraught. It was clear there was a lot going on in that little bunny head, more than Mycroft could understand at the moment from appearances alone. 

“Do you want to tell Daddy what’s going on?” Mycroft asked, softening his voice and taking a seat next to Bunny on the couch. “I might be able to help, baby boy.”

“Don’t call me that!” he said, voice muffled by the couch and his tears. “I want Papa.”

There was little Mycroft could do to comfort the boy when he was rejecting his attention. It was clear the boy was overly sensitive today, however, so Mycroft knew he would need to be careful when choosing any babyish nicknames throughout the rest of the day. He proceeded with as much patience as he could muster.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, kiddo,” he said. “Did Daddy do something to make you upset?”

“Daddy’s mean!” Bunny said by way of not-so-detailed explanation. 

The boy was obviously not in a space where he was able or willing to talk about his feelings. It was very possible the boy himself hadn’t been able to put his emotions fully into words up to that point. After all, John generally processed his emotions about headspace while adult, discussing his feelings with Mycroft over late night tea or whiskey. There had not been a chance for John and Mycroft to discuss what John was thinking through since they’d all gone back to their everyday lives after the weekend at the lake. 

“It’s no fun being sick,” Mycroft said by way of providing the boy a bit of empathy. “How about after your timeout and your apology we get you and your brother some hot cocoa. Maybe that will help you feel a little better, okay, buddy?”

Bunny shook his head and pressed himself deeper into the couch. 

“You need to go to timeout now, Bunny,” Mycroft said. 

He’d been far more accommodating after a misbehavior than he normally would have been, and his already shallow well of patience was just about dried up. So when Bunny refused to move, Mycroft was forced to lift him from the couch and physically carry him to the kitchen, where he placed the screaming boy into the timeout corner. 

Bunny was not ready to give in, and he did all he could to get out of timeout, wiggling away from Mycroft’s grasp and kicking out when he tried to block his escape from the corner. Mycroft had no option but to put the kid over his knee and spank him through his nightshirt and training pants until Bunny became compliant and stayed in the corner, crying into his hands. 

——

It had been the worst day ever. He didn’t feel well and Daddy loved Sherlock more than he loved him. Daddy wasn’t fair and he couldn’t talk to him right now. He wanted his Papa.

“Come here, Bun,” Daddy said when the timer had chimed which signaled the end of Bunny’s second timeout of the day.

He’d earned his most recent timeout only minutes after being released from his first, which he’d gotten for throwing his sippy cup and hiding the remote. This timeout had been earned for pulling his baby blanket roughly away from Sherlock’s grasp when he saw that the baby had taken it while Bunny had been in the corner. He’d pulled hard enough that Sherlock had stumbled and fallen forward onto his knees, and had then pushed Sherlock and told him the blanket wasn't his, which had made the little detective cry. 

“Come here, kiddo,” Daddy repeated. 

Bunny turned around and stepped out of the timeout corner but did not look up at the man sitting in a kitchen chair who was waiting for his apology. He stared down at the ground, angry with Daddy. Daddy didn’t seem to care at all that he was feeling sick and really, really confused today. 

“I need you to tell me why you were in timeout, kiddo,” Daddy said when Bunny was close.

“Because Daddy’s a meanie,” Bunny mumbled before he could censor himself. 

He gasped, realizing what he’d just said, and looked up at his Daddy with wide eyes. He was tired and his throat hurt and his head was pounding. He wanted to get out of timeout so he could hold Willa the bunny and his rescued baby blanket and curl up until Papa was home. 

His Daddy sighed, and Bunny could tell that he was contemplating whether or not to send him back for another time out, as he sometimes did when Sherlock refused to acknowledge what rules he had broken. 

“Let’s try that one more time,” Daddy said, eyebrows raised, and Bunny’s fear that he would be kept in the timeout corner the entire day slowly dissipated.

He sighed, and felt his eyes fill up with tears. He hadn’t meant to be bad all morning, but Daddy had been preoccupied with Sherlock, who had gone and gotten younger and taken all the attention, and Bunny’s thoughts and desires about not feeling like a boy today had turned him confused and lonely, so he’d acted out. 

“I’m sorry I pulled my blankie away from Sherlock and pushed and hurted him,” Bunny mumbled, glancing down at the floor to keep Daddy from seeing that he was about to cry. “And I’m sorry I didn’t listen again when you told me to go to timeout.” 

The tiles in the kitchen were cold against his bare feet. He wished Daddy would pull him into his lap and help him into some cozy socks. But Bunny hadn’t done a very good job of telling Daddy what he needed that day. In fact, he’d mostly signalled to Daddy that he didn’t want to be touched, pulling away from him when he tried to kiss his forehead or rub his back, so it was no surprise that Daddy couldn’t tell he wanted to cuddle. 

“You’re forgiven,” Daddy said. “Would you like a hug?”

Bunny shook his head. If Daddy saw him crying, he’d make him explain what was wrong, and he couldn’t tell him. Not yet. 

“I know you’re not feeling well, kiddo,” Daddy said. “But that doesn’t mean we ignore the rules and act disrespectfully. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Bunny said, as desperate as ever to escape his Daddy’s disappointment. 

“Now,” his Daddy said, standing from the kitchen table and turning towards the cabinets. “You need to apologize to your baby brother. And it’s time for some more medicine.”

Daddy thought it was best if the telly stayed off for the time being, so Bunny sat next to Sherlock on the floor, where the younger boy had returned to his earlier activity of building with colorful wooden blocks. Sherlock glanced up at Bunny when he sat down, pirate pacifier lodged firmly into his mouth.

“Sorry I pushed you, Lock,” Bunny said, voice small. 

Sherlock blinked up at Bunny with little understanding, but when he held out a fistful of colorful plastic animals, Bunny knew he was forgiven, and he helped Sherlock build walls and towers on top of which Bunny balanced lions and tigers and llamas. 

Daddy came back with medicine and hot cocoa. He made each boy blow their nose and take a spoonful of yucky medicine before they could have their treat. Sherlock cried when he swallowed down his medicine, and Daddy lifted him into his arms and carried him to the couch, where he cradled him while he fed him his bottle of hot cocoa. 

Bunny stayed on the floor to the left of the couch, having an elephant climb a tower and then, with a glance towards his brother—snuggled tight and comfortable in his Daddy’s arms—reaching out his arms to knock Sherlock’s blocks to the ground. It wasn’t fair that Daddy snuggled Sherlock. Who would snuggle Bunny? 

Daddy twisted his head to follow the sound of tumbling blocks to glance at Bunny, kneeling on the carpet.

“Oops,” Bunny said, pretending it had all been an accident, and his Daddy lifted one eyebrow but turned back to Sherlock, who Bunny could see was getting sleepy.

Bunny didn’t like feeling so far away from his Daddy. Part of him knew it was his fault, that all he had to do was tell his Daddy he wanted to be cuddled too or about the doubts sifting through his mind that he was maybe a girl today, and then his Daddy would take him into his arms. But the part of him that felt angry that his Daddy hadn’t figured it out for himself, the part of him that wondered if Daddy would still love him as a girl, told him the words would be too hard, that there was potentially too much to lose. So he stayed quiet. 

Bunny twitched a bit on the carpet. He’d lied to Daddy earlier when he’d asked if he needed the potty, and now it was getting to be a bit of an emergency. He was about to set down his sippy cup and make his way to the potty like a big kid. 

But he suddenly had a better idea. Daddy would have to pay attention to him if he had an accident and wet his underpants on the floor. Whenever Bunny came to him or Papa with wet pants, Daddy cuddled and helped Bunny clean up. He made him feel special, like everything was going to be alright. He decided he would pee right where he was. 

He shifted farther down towards the ground, spreading his knees until the fabric of his undies was right against the carpet, and, with a breath and a suck on his sippy cup, fingers wrapped around the warm plastic, he let himself begin to pee. 

The wetness was warm as it trickled into the extra padding of his training pants, and for a moment it felt just as it did when Bunny peed into his pull-ups, fabric expanding between his legs. But soon the terrycloth at his crotch could not contain the wetness, and he felt the pee streaming fast onto the carpet beneath him, spreading between his knees and along his bum, where he was sitting. 

He could not help it when his cheeks pinked. He was peeing in his pants on purpose, and it was spreading quickly, all around where he sat on his Daddy’s expensive rug. He knew his Little Mermaid nightshirt has not escaped the accident, that the fabric was sure to have been soaked by the stream of pee trickling down towards his bum. 

He peed until he was empty, for once relaxing himself as he wet instead of tensing in an attempt to stop. It felt good to pee himself right where he sat, to soil his nightshirt and his new ladybug undies and his Daddy’s rug. The rug was a dark pattern, so the wetness blended in, but if he looked closely Bunny could see the spreading outline of the liquid pooling beneath him. 

When he finished, he resumed sucking on his hot cocoa, the sippy-cup warm in his hand just as the pee was warm in his undies, and he waited for Daddy to discover what he had done, smiling as he imagined how close he was to Daddy’s soothing and cuddling.

But his Daddy stood from his spot on the couch and was too focused on gathering a sleeping Sherlock into his arms to do anything more than half-glance towards Bunny. 

“I’m going to put Sherlock down for a little nap, Bun,” Daddy said as he hoisted Sherlock into his arms. “I’ll be right back down. Be a good boy until I get back.”

And then Bunny was alone, and wetting his pants didn’t seem like such a great idea now that the accident was over. He pressed his hand against the dark circle of pee spread beneath him on the rug, could feel the liquid already cooling beneath him and sticking to the skin of his legs. This hadn’t been an accident at all, and Daddy hadn’t even noticed and had called him a boy again, and now Bunny felt naughty and sad. What had he done?

Bunny scrambled to his feet and hurried out of the living room as tears filled his eyes. He needed to find a spot where he could be alone. He needed to hide.


	11. Daddy's Little Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to give you all a bit of an early Christmas present by way of a new chapter. I'm still not feeling 100%, but it makes me feel better knowing there's a little bit of resolution currently for Bunny and Mycroft and that I can share some happiness with others! It's unedited, so I apologize for any typos--I'll more than likely come back to tweak a few things soon but if I didn't get it up now it would probably be another day or two.
> 
> Thank you all as always for you wonderfully sweet and endearing comments. I'm so happy to have been able to bring you all some comfort and hopefully happiness with this series, and I hope you'll all continue on in the journey with these little kiddos in the new year. A special thank you to SimiTheTrickster, who helped me put a name to what Bunny is going through--gender fluidity--and was kind enough to share a little bit about their own journey which helped me in this chapter and is sure to help in future chapters as well! 
> 
> Sending you all holiday wishes and Snow Bunny kisses. Love to those of you who have family to celebrate the holidays with but especially to those who don't--please know you're not alone and I for one am sending you positive vibes!
> 
> Happy Holidays and a happy start to the Christmas weekend for those of you who celebrate!
> 
> Oh, also, I'll be responding to comments hopefully before the night is out, but don't have time immediately.

Bunny was confused by the layout of his Daddy’s house. He wasn’t even sure he would have been able to find his own way from his bedroom to the breakfast table that morning if Papa hadn’t led him down, so it was no easy feat to find a room that would make a good hiding spot.

He hurried down a hallway covered in old paintings--Willa the rabbit and his bunny baby blanket clutched in his hand--and pulled open a door to find himself in what must have been Daddy’s office. The room was large and ominous, with dark wood paneling on the walls and old schematics of airplanes hung on the walls behind shelves covered in antique globes. An entire wall was covered in bookshelves filled with leather-bound books, many in what looked to be different languages. 

Bunny stepped further inside and closed the door behind him; it would make as good a hiding place as any. The room was scarier with the door closed, heavy curtains hanging from the windows to block out the daylight, so Bunny hurried to take refuge beneath the large desk on the side of the room closest to the bookcases. 

He breathed a bit more easily once he was hunched beneath the wooden desk, arms wrapped around the knees pressed to his chest. He knew he would be found eventually, but his Daddy was currently dealing with Sherlock, and he likely wouldn’t expect Bunny to have wandered into the office; he may have quite a while before he needed to face reality and possible punishment for the little accident on the living room rug. What was needed most of all was a minute alone to think and to breathe, and, for the moment, Bunny had that.

Bunny let his head fall back against the back panel of the desk. It had been a rough day, and he was still feeling the effects of not sleeping well coupled with his cold, which only seemed to be getting worse. Bunny hadn’t meant to misbehave so much throughout the day, but he didn’t feel like himself, hadn’t felt like himself since slipping down into his most recent headspace.

The fact was, Bunny had been feeling like a girl since coming to his Daddy’s house, maybe even since having the accident in Sherlock’s bed and hiding in the closet. He didn’t want to be a boy today; his skin felt prickly and too tight when he thought about being a boy, and that prickliness had been nagging him on all day, taunting him and making him act naughty. 

He ran his fingers along his Ariel nightshirt. Papa and Daddy had said it was okay for Bunny to be their little princess, and Bunny knew that Papa meant it. But Daddy had been hesitant, and wanting to actually be a little girl took things a bit farther. Bunny felt scared. If he told them, would they think he was wrong, or not believe him, or think he was just too much of a burden? 

What if Papa and Daddy argued like they had after that time at the grocery store? Bunny knew he shouldn’t have, but he had listened at the top of the stairs at the lake house while Papa and Daddy first discussed Bunny wanting to wear pink pull-ups and his Little Mermaid nightshirt. He had only listened for a moment before feeling himself aging up and retreating to the bedroom, but the guilt he had felt over causing a rift in his Daddy and Papa’s relationship had been all-consuming. 

Bunny cried into his knees. He cried at the thought of being alone and because his skin was prickly with the desire to be a little girl, and he cried because his underwear were wet and cold and itchy with pee, which made him aware of his private parts, which felt all wrong at the moment. He cried because he hadn’t brought his pacifier with him and because his throat hurt, and he cried because he wanted his Papa and was scared of what would happen when Daddy found him. 

He felt the need to be a girl in the same way he had initially felt the need to be little, back when he was primarily a caregiver and Sherlock was little on his own. But now there was so much more at stake, so much more to lose. He had his Daddy and his Papa and his brother, and he was loved and cared for and a part of something. He couldn’t stand the thought of his little family turning away from him.  


\----

Mycroft got Sherlock to sleep rather quickly, the boy already tired from the hot cocoa and the cold medicine he had found in the downstairs bathroom cabinet. Sherlock did ask for a story to be read to him before he’d fallen asleep, and Mycroft had found one of the new pictures books he’d furnished Sherlock’s room with and sat beside him in bed to read to the boy.

“Another, Mycroft,” Sherlock said when the storybook was finished, eyes half-closed as he struggled to stay awake while leaning against his brother.

“Another time, buddy,” Mycroft said, voice low, speaking into Sherlock’s hairline, “It’s time for all good little boys to get some sleep.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to complain, but was caught in a yawn, and seemed to forget his objections as Mycroft stepped from the bed, pulled the comforter up beneath his little brother’s chin, and helped him settle down onto his pillow. 

“Feel better, little string bean,” he whispered as he pulled the boy’s bedroom door nearly all the way closed. “Call for me if you need anything.” 

Sherlock nodded absentmindedly, pacifier between his lips and plush animals snuggled into bed with him. It was a bit early for the boy to nap--normally, Mycroft would wait until after lunch to attempt to get the boys down to rest--but it had been clear Sherlock was ready to sleep, and keeping him awake would only lead to a very grumpy baby. 

Besides, Mycroft could see that something more than a head cold was bothering Bunny, and if he could find a moment to talk with the boy without distractions, maybe he could get to the bottom of whatever was on the kid’s mind. 

Bunny was nowhere to be found when Mycroft returned to the living room. But when Mycroft stepped around the edge of the room to check if the boy had wandered behind the couch, he stepped into a wet patch on the carpet, and sighed. He had a sinking suspicion that he knew exactly what had happened. 

After a quick trip to the downstairs bathroom to throw his wet sock into the laundry hamper and to find a clean pull-up and a package of baby wipes in the cabinet beneath the sink, he began his search for the boy. 

“Bunny?” he called as he walked back through the living room and then, after ensuring the boy was not hiding in any tucked-away places, into the hallway. “Can you tell Daddy where you are so he knows you’re okay, buddy?” 

Mycroft checked the laundry room, kitchen, dining room, and downstairs guest bedroom before starting to get worried. He wouldn’t expect Bunny to leave the house without an explanation, but it wasn’t out of the question; most of the boy’s behavior that day had been out of character. He was about to begin searching the second floor when he came to his study. Surely the boy wouldn’t have ventured into his office, but nevertheless he opened the door to peer inside.

“Bun? Are you in here, sweetheart?”

Mycroft did not hear a response, and nothing seemed out of place in the room. He was about to turn and resume his search upstairs when he heard the slightest hitch of breath, and then a sniffle.

“Where are you kiddo?”

And then Mycroft didn’t have to guess, because he could simply follow the sound of Bunny’s tears to find the kiddo huddled beneath his desk, hugging his knees to his chest and looking rather small and pitiful. 

“Do you want to tell me what’s been going on today, kiddo?” Mycroft asked, pulling the desk chair aside and crouching in front of the boy.

Bunny looked as if he was contemplating telling him. There was a relief on his face upon being found that Mycroft felt boded well for some sort of reconciliation between himself and his little boy. But soon the boy dissolved into tears once more, shaking his head and burying his face back into his knees.

“I can’t tell you, Daddy,” he cried, slipping his thumb into his mouth.

It was clear the boy needed some comfort at the moment, and Mycroft knew he must be uncomfortable considering he had wet himself roughly twenty-five minutes ago. But the boy was afraid, and Mycroft did not want to jar him by forcing him out from under the desk before he was ready. 

“Can Daddy come in, sweetheart?” Mycroft asked, gesturing towards the open space beneath the desk when Bunny glanced up.

The boy nodded, and Mycroft ducked his head and crawled under the desk on his hands and knees. It was a tight fit given his height, but he maneuvered his body until he sat facing the boy, his back pressed against the opposite side of the desk from Bunny. 

“Sweetheart, you know you can tell me or your Papa anything at all,” he said.

Bunny shook his head, then dropped his head into his hands, hiding his face. 

“You’ll be mad,” Bunny said, sniffling as he wiped at teary eyes. “You won’t like me, anymore.”

Mycroft couldn’t stand to see the boy so upset. He reached out to guide the boy into his arms, situating him on the floor between his legs. He held him close, letting the boy cry out his distress. He felt such a strong love and affection for John and for Bunny; he couldn’t stand the clear turmoil the boy was currently suffering. 

“Do you need to age up for us to talk, John?” Mycroft asked, appealing to the older side of the man whom Mycroft knew was still always fairly close to the surface when it came to Bunny, something he was continuing to work on with the boy.

Bunny shook his head into Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Won’t be able to tell if I’m big,” he said, voice little more than a whisper in Mycroft’s ear.

Mycroft figured he may need to change tactics.

“Okay, lady bug,” he said, knowing it was a favorite nickname of Bunny’s. “How about this? Daddy brought some wipes and a clean butterfly pull-up.”

Bunny whimpered and tried to push himself away from Mycroft. Mycroft feared he would burst into loud cries once more, and kept his arms wrapped tightly around the boy.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, assuring the boy as quickly as possible. “It was just an accident. I’m not mad and we can clean the carpet.”

Bunny seemed to settle a bit, and peeked up at Mycroft.

“Can Daddy help you out of your wet things?” he asked. “You must be uncomfortable.” 

The boy hesitated for a moment, but then nodded, scooting away from his Daddy so they could climb out from beneath the desk. Mycroft took control when they were out in the open, sitting in the desk chair and bringing the boy close between his legs, where he stripped him of his wet nightshirt and soaked underwear before beginning to wipe him down.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Bunny said as Mycroft helped him into the dry purple and pink pull-up.

“No harm done, princess,” he said before gathering the boy into his lap on the desk chair. 

Mycroft should get the boy dressed in something warmer than a lone pull-up, especially considering the fact that both he and Sherlock were working to overcome illness, but it was clear the boy needed attention and affection at the moment, and Mycroft could press the boy close to keep him warm. 

"Daddy?" Bunny asked after they had sat in silence for quite some time. 

"Yes, baby?"

“What if maybe I’m a girl today?” Bunny asked as all once after they had sat in silence for quite some time. The boy blurted out the words all at once, as if there was only a limited space within which he could say them.

Mycroft should have seen this coming. He’d been so focused on the boys being sick and on Sherlock being extra young that he’d failed to identify the confusion going on in Bunny’s mind. The kid hadn’t been railing against Mycroft’s endearments throughout the day because they labelled him a baby; he’d been railing against them because they’d labeled him a boy. How had Mycroft been so entirely off the mark? 

Mycroft pulled Bunny gently away from where he’d been laying on his shoulder in order to look him in the eye. He waited to speak until Bunny stopped pulling at an errant string on the sleeve of Mycroft’s shirt and looked up at him.

“Then you’re a girl today, honey,” Mycroft said with a shrug, reaching to wrap his hand behind Bunny's neck and to run the pad of his thumb down his little Bunny’s cheek. 

Bunny’s eyes widened and Mycroft thought he saw a hint of a smile in the corner of the kid’s mouth.

“But what if I feel like a boy again tomorrow?” Bunny was pulling at his bottom lip, clearly nervous. 

“Then you’ll be a boy tomorrow,” Mycroft shrugged, smiling. “You can be just want you’d like to be, honey bun.”

“You’re not mad?” Bunny asked.

Mycroft sighed. He hated to know that the hesitancy he had shown when issues of Bunny’s gender identity had first come to surface had so clearly led his child to believe he-- _she_ , Mycroft corrected himself--could not be honest and upfront about her emotions. Mycroft had been close-minded and short-sighted, and he hated that his bigotry had caused his kid stress.

“Listen to me, baby,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “This is important for you to hear. Daddy hasn’t always been as accepting of your feelings as he should have been, sweetheart. I need you to know that that’s Daddy’s problem, not yours. Even your Daddy isn’t always right, and he was wrong to question you when you first told Papa what you needed. Do you understand?”

Bunny looked unsure, but eventually nodded. 

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting any of the things you feel drawn to, princess,” Mycroft continued. “As long as they don’t hurt yourself or anyone else. When you feel like a girl, you have every right to be a girl. And when you want to be a boy, you can be a boy. Your Papa and I care most that you’re happy and yourself.” 

Bunny’s eyes filled with tears and he--no, _she_ , Mycroft amended--wrapped her arms around Mycroft’s shoulders. 

“Love you, Daddy,” Bunny mumbled.

“I love you too, baby girl.”

Mycroft never thought he’d have himself a daughter, but now that she was snuggled safe in his arms, he couldn’t wait to get to know her.


	12. Little Sister Worries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loves! I've missed you all and hope you've all had a wonderful holiday season and are enjoying the new year! Things have been very up in the air for me, which has meant less time to write, but I finally had some time to finish up this chapter and edit a bit, so I'm excited to share it with all of you.
> 
> I'm working on responding to all of your comments, but I'm about to head out for a bit, so it may be later tonight or tomorrow! I promise to get to them all asap because I truly value all of your wonderful comments!
> 
> SPOILER ALERT: If you haven't watched S4:E3, The Final Problem, I would suggest watching before you read this chapter. Generally, as a rule, I shy away from referencing specific plot points from the series unless they help us understand the characterization of these men (i.e. John's PTSD). That said, I generally try to remain as canon as possible (apart from the ageplay and clearly-defined romantic relationships, that is). In this case, as I began thinking through how Sherlock may deal with Bunny's shifting gender identity, it became clear that it would be necessary to cover this topic by introducing some of what we learn about Sherlock and Mycroft's past in TFP. As soon as I decided to include references to this plot line, the stakes instantly became higher for all four men involved. 
> 
> As a result, I've unfortunately thrown you all back into angst by the end of this chapter. I've given you some cute baby Sherlock in the middle to hopefully make you smile, but I'm afraid Bunny's day is going to end with just as much difficultly as it began. Hopefully all will be resolved soon!
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you'd like to see in the coming chapters, and have a great night, all! Stay inside and bundled up if you're somewhere where the weather is bitterly cold right now (like me!).

It was just as Mycroft was putting Bunny down for a nap that Sherlock began waking up from his, whining and fussing from the other room as if sensing his brother was close by. 

“Be right there, Sherlock,” Mycroft called over his shoulder through the doorway joining the two bedrooms as he pulled the blankets up to Bunny’s chin.

“I’m sorry none of your nightgowns are clean,” Daddy said, voice gentle as he tugged the sleeve of the lion pajamas he had dressed Bunny in further down her wrist. He had been worried that Bunny would catch even more of a cold after sitting downstairs for so long in wet underwear, so had insisted on long sleeves and pants. “When you’re feeling better, Papa and I will take you to pick out some new clothes. Would you like that?”

Bunny nodded, smiling up at Daddy. It would be nice to have new clothes for the times Bunny was feeling like a girl--nightgowns and sparkly shirts and fuzzy socks and maybe even a dress--but the truth of the matter was that Bunny felt less concerned about clothing and outfits now that Daddy accepted Bunny was sometimes a girl. There was no need to place such importance on nightgowns and pink pull-ups alone, anymore, because Bunny could be a boy or a girl, whenever Bunny wanted, no matter the clothing. For the moment, she was perfectly content in her comfortable old lion pajamas.

“Sleep well, ladybug,” Daddy said, leaning to kiss her on the forehead. 

He patted Bunny’s foot beneath the blankets as he walked around the bed and made his way into Sherlock’s room. 

“Get some rest,” he said.

Daddy pulled the door closed behind him, but stopped before Bunny could get upset, peeking through the sliver of opened doorway to smile and lay a finger over his lips, signalling to Bunny that it was time to get to sleep. Bunny didn’t like it when bedroom doors were closed all the way, even at naptime, when daylight streamed in through the blinds and around the edges of curtains. Luckily, Daddy knew just how to keep her feeling safe, and always left the doorways cracked open. 

Bunny lay in the darkened room for a moment listening to the whispered voices of Daddy and Sherlock. She heard Daddy calming a fussy Sherlock, then changing Sherlock into a clean diaper before gathering him up to take him downstairs, where Bunny knew it would be Sherlock’s turn for lunch as it had been Bunny’s before naptime. She traced Daddy’s footsteps down the staircase, and then Bunny was alone in the quiet. 

There was a serenity to the house after the turmoil of the morning, and although Bunny was still feeling a bit groggy from the head cold, her mind was clearer and her frustration had passed. She could not help but smile as she drifted off to sleep, feeling for the first time since coming to stay at Daddy’s flat that she was fully herself. 

\----

Mycroft settled Sherlock down to eat lunch at the kitchen table. The boy was rather more cheerful than he had been all morning, either the nap or the consistent cough and cold medicine seeming to have gone far in helping him to feel a bit better, less testy. 

Mycroft knew he needed to speak with Sherlock about the newest development regarding Bunny. He wanted to ensure that Bunny was supported and loved for the decisions she had made today, something he would be more likely to guarantee if he discussed this most recent development with his little brother. 

When Sherlock was this young, he generally accepted things as they came; he was prone to love and happiness more so than when he was his toddler or little boy self. But if Sherlock suddenly aged up, there might be trouble. That Mycroft knew. Sherlock was not not particularly intolerant, but he was highly prone to jealousy, and Mycroft knew the Bunny would require a bit of extra attention as she settled into this side of herself for the first time. Sherlock was bound to feel left out, and may misbehave or taunt as a result. 

Sherlock was currently about as young as Mycroft had ever seen him over the course of the day, and while he certainly did not want to force the boy older when he was so clearly finding the release he needed at the moment, he felt it was his duty to attempt a conversation. 

“Sherlock, hun,” Mycroft said as Sherlock spooned macaroni and cheese into his mouth. “Can I talk to you for a moment, bud?”

The boy glanced and smirked as he shrugged, reaching out his spoonful of macaroni towards Mycroft.

“Yummy,” Sherlock said, his arm held straight out, as if he were trying to feed Mycroft off his little spoon with the plastic pirate handle.

It was clear the boy was still very young, and Mycroft feared he was potentially too young to comprehend what Mycroft needed to tell him. 

He sighed and bent towards Sherlock’s spoon to eat the mouthful of macaroni. The action was apparently inordinately funny, because it caused Sherlock to dissolve into a shriek of laughter, mouth wide and teeth bared as he cackled. 

Mycroft shushed the boy as gently as he could, reaching out his hands to signal that it was important for them to be quiet at the moment; he was warmed by Sherlock’s happiness, by the moment they’d shared, but he was also conscious of Bunny sleeping upstairs, and he knew Bunny deserved the chance to rest after such a tiring morning. 

Sherlock fell against the back of his chair and clapped a hand over his smiling mouth, genuinely trying to stifle his giggles but not being entirely successful. Mycroft glanced towards the staircase to ensure Bunny hadn’t been woken by Sherlock’s joyful outburst, but when it seemed they’d escaped waking her up, he looked back to his brother with a grin.

“You silly goose,” Mycroft teased. “We have to be careful not to wake your sis--” 

Mycroft paused. It was true Sherlock currently had a sister napping upstairs, not a brother, but the prospect of telling that to his younger brother suddenly caused a pit in his stomach. His body stilled, and the smile was quickly dropped from his face. 

It was true that Mycroft worried about Sherlock’s treatment of Bunny given this new development, worried about the potential teasing or shunning that Bun might receive at the hands of Sherlock. But Mycroft had suddenly been reminded that there was more to the situation than Bunny’s feelings alone. Bunny would have had no idea of the ramifications, of course, but introducing a sister into Sherlock’s world had more than the usual potential for disaster. Mycroft worried about the effect it may have on Sherlock’s state of mind. 

The worry was not a new one. Ageplay had the potential to release old memories; Mycroft knew that and was meticulously careful to assess Sherlock’s recollections of childhood by using trigger words after every extended ageplay session as a test of his brother’s state of mind. He had initially been worried that introducing John as another little would stir up his brother’s memories of playing pirates with his childhood best friend; however, since John had begun slipping into headspace Mycroft had increased his testing of Sherlock’s memory--most recently just a day after the weekend at the lake--and was satisfied that Sherlock remained ignorant of the incident with Victor Trevor. 

But introducing a sister into the picture--one who, despite Sherlock’s current age would be more often than not the younger sibling to Sherlock, just as Eurus was--had the potential for disaster. Ageplay was a coping mechanism for Sherlock, a time for him to escape the stress and turmoil of his constantly moving mind. It was hard enough for Sherlock to allow himself the release of being truly young. This had the potential to change that, to alter what it was Mycroft and Sherlock had been practicing for essentially all of Sherlock’s life. 

“We don’t want to wake the Bunny,” was what Mycroft settled on at last, reaching out to tousle Sherlock’s curls and attempting to speak in an upbeat, settled tone despite feeling quite distraught. 

Sherlock nodded, then reached out another spoonful of macaroni. Mycroft scoffed but allowed his little brother to feed him once more, and Sherlock giggled, this time attempting to restrain himself as much as possible. Trying to stay quiet led to Sherlock snorting through his laughter, and then he was belly laughing once more, this time at his own silliness. 

“Okay, okay. Quieter, please,” Mycroft said with a smile, not having the heart to speak sternly when his brother was the picture of carefree happiness. “Give me that, little monkey.”

He took the spoon from Sherlock’s hand and began feeding the boy himself. Sherlock ate greedily for once, waiting for spoonfuls of macaroni with an opened mouth.

“Slow down,” Mycroft said when Sherlock whined for more. “Chew and swallow. There’s plenty more.” 

Mycroft cared greatly for John’s happiness, had grown to love his little Bunny dearly, but he would not be able to forgive himself were Sherlock to suddenly recall the horrors of his first childhood, were Sherlock to no longer be able to ageplay without the stain of residual trauma. And so Mycroft did not have the heart to tell Sherlock it was his sister napping upstairs and not his brother, did not have the heart to introduce something so charged when Sherlock was so content and adorably happy.

He needed a bit more time to process the events, needed to plan the best course of action knowing both Sherlock’s temperament and Bunny’s. For what must have been the twentieth time that day, Mycroft wished Greg were home. 

\----

Bunny rubbed her eyes as she woke to a weight pressing down the end of her bed. She had been dreaming about spending the day on the beach with Sherlock and her Daddy and Papa, building sandcastles and chasing the seagulls.

“Time to wake up, sleepy-head.”

Bunny blinked awake and pushed herself up onto her elbows. Papa was sitting on the end of her bed, still dressed in his work clothes.

“Papa!” she yelled, scrambling out from beneath the blankets to wrap the man in a hug. “I missed you!”

“I missed you, too, princess,” Papa said, returning the hug before settling Bunny comfortably into his lap. “I was worried about you all day.” 

Bunny let her face fall into Papa’s shoulder, feeling happy and sleepy now that she knew Papa was home safe from work. It was such a relief after feeling the pull for him all morning, and she never wanted him to leave ever again. 

“Did you sleep well?” Papa asked, rubbing a hand along her back, and Bunny nodded, then remembered her dream and perked up to tell Papa all about the sandcastles and picnic foods and the way Papa had pulled Daddy into the ocean, which had made Daddy angry but then silly. 

“Sounds like a wonderful dream,” Papa said with a laugh before smiling down at her. 

They sat in stillness for a moment, Bunny simply reveling in the memory of the dream and the feeling of being cuddled by her Papa. She had woken up to a dry pull-up, which was a relief after the night before, and she felt comfortable and in control of herself and her emotions for perhaps the first time all day, happy to know she had both her Daddy and her Papa back to take care of her and Sherlock. 

“I talked with your Daddy,” Papa said after a moment, shifting Bunny around so she was straddling his hips and he could look her in the face. “He told me you had a tough morning.” 

Bunny felt her cheeks pink. She hadn’t been the best behaved child that morning, and she hoped Papa wouldn’t be disappointed.

“I got two timeouts,” Bunny admitted, voice quiet as she ducked her head and reached to fumble with the buttons on Papa’s grey dress shirt. “And I hadda accident.” 

“I heard, baby,” Papa said, crooking a finger beneath Bunny’s chin to guide her to look up. “But there’s something more. Something you told Daddy before your nap?”

Bunny nodded, less unsure of herself now that she’d had the conversation once before and was speaking with Papa, who never judged.

“I told Daddy I’m a girl, today,” Bunny said, then became shy again, unused to saying the words aloud, and ducked her head.

But Papa was having none of Bunny’s timidity, and soon she was wrapped up in his arms, pressed close to his chest in a Papa bear hug, her cheek resting against his loosened necktie. 

“I’m proud of you, Bunny,” he said breath warm against Bunny’s ear. “Very proud of my brave girl.”

Bunny could not help but smile at the praise, snuggling close against Papa’s chest and reveling in the warmth of his embrace. Papa had been supportive of Bunny from the beginning, from the very first moment he’d learned that Bunny had a penchant for paper dolls and unicorns. Even so, this is what Bunny had been waiting for all morning: unequivocal acceptance and love from Papa, whom she had never had any cause to doubt when it came to this topic. 

“I brought my little princess a present for being so brave and honest,” Papa said, lifting her from his lap to place her beside him on the bed.

Bunny sat up with wide eyes. She could not help but bounce a bit where she sat, eager and excited for whatever Papa had brought, but she waited patiently as Papa retrieved a shopping bag from the floor at the end of the bed.

“Close your eyes,” Papa said, and Bunny giggled but obeyed. “Hold out your hands.”

Bunny had to wait only a moment with her eyes squeezed shut before Papa placed something oddly shaped into her waiting hands. 

“You can open your eyes, baby girl,” Papa whispered.

Bunny was holding a unicorn horn, rainbow-colored and glittery and attached to a purple headband that could tuck just behind Bunny’s ears. She could not help but beam with happiness, bouncing once more where she sat as she giggled up at Papa.

“Unicorn!” she said, unable to express her present joy in a more refined way. “I can be a unicorn!”

And then Papa was helping her put on the headband, sliding it onto her head until the horn rested just above her forehead. Papa’s face broke out into a wide grin as he sat back to look down at Bunny, and she blushed through Daddy snapping a quick picture of her on his phone. After putting his phone away, he leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. Bunny leapt towards him for a hug. 

“Thank you, Papa,” Bunny said, eyes filling with tears which she tried to blink away.

“You don’t ever have to hide who you are, baby,” Papa told her, wiping her face free of the tears she had not managed to keep from spilling down her cheeks. “Your Daddy and I want you and Sherlock to be just as happy as you can be.”

Bunny nodded, and she rested in Papa’s arms until her tears--tears of happiness and joy as well as tears of relief after the confusion and doubt of the morning--had come to a stop. 

“Okay, little unicorn,” Papa said at last, standing from the bed with Bunny in his arms. “What do you say to a little Papa and Bunny night tonight?” 

“Papa and Bunny night?”

“Yes, sweetheart. You and I are going to head back to Baker street, just the two of us. Papa will make some dinner and we can watch movies and maybe even bake cupcakes for dessert. Would you like that?”

Bunny smiled. It sounded fun. But she had a sinking suspicion that there was something Papa wasn’t saying. It was rare for Bunny to be separated from Sherlock when they were both young, rarer for Papa and Daddy to split up their little family voluntarily. Bunny reached up to pull the unicorn horn headband off of her head, smile fading. 

“Papa, did you and Daddy have a fight?” she asked, eyes worried. 

Papa and Daddy had argued after Papa bought Bunny her first nightshirt and her pink and purple pull-ups. Did Daddy not like the unicorn headband? Had Daddy not been honest when he told Bunny she could be a girl when she wanted to be? 

Papa sighed and sat Bunny back down onto the bed before kneeling down to be on her level. 

“No, sweetheart,” Papa said, placing his hands flat on the bed on either side of Bunny. “Everything is okay between me and Daddy. And I’m going to be honest with you because you’re a big girl and Papa would never want to lie to you. But, first, I need you to know that Papa and Daddy are both very, very happy to have you as our little girl. Do you understand that?”

Bunny felt unsure of herself and nervous, but she nodded slowly. 

“Promise?” she asked for assurance, and Papa rubbed her knee.

“Yes, darling. I promise.”

Bunny could not help but raise a hand to her mouth, feeling the need for the comfort of her thumb, but Papa guided her hand back down to her lap, gently prompting her to speak up regarding what was on her mind.

“Daddy, too?” she asked, and Papa’s response was immediate.

“Daddy, too. I want you to forget what he may have said or how he behaved before, princess. Daddy was telling you the truth today when he said he supports you just as you are. It’s only fair of us to take him at his word. Okay?”

Bunny looked up at her Papa, and could see that he was right. Bunny had to trust Daddy, because Daddy wouldn’t lie to her. 

“Okay, Papa,” she said.

“Your Daddy and Papa have known for a while now that you may want to be a girl,” Papa continued, still rubbing Bunny’s knee. “We’re very glad you felt comfortable enough to finally tell us that today. But this is a big change, and now your Daddy has to find the right way to explain that big change to Sherlock. He needs to make sure Sherlock knows what good news this is for all of us.”

“Sherlock doesn’t like change,” Bunny said, suddenly feeling guilty that she had not thought of how her decision may impact Sherlock. “And he’s only a baby right now.”

Papa smiled and cupped Bunny’s cheek with his hand.

“Exactly, love. We need to make sure we prepare him in the right way for the big announcement, and Daddy needs some time to do that. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Bunny said, nodding. She could not help but let her thumb slip into her mouth, feeling a bit younger and more unsure than she had a moment before. 

“Wonderful,” Papa said, standing to cross the room towards Bunny’s closet. “Now, let’s pack some clothes for our little trip back to Baker Street, and I’m sure in a day or so we’ll all be back under the same roof, just as happy as ever.”

Bunny stood and began helping Papa gather clothes and toys they might need over the course of the night and the next day, thumb planted firmly in her mouth. There was a part of Bunny that did not understand why she had to leave Sherlock and Daddy. All she knew was that it was her fault. If she hadn’t told Daddy she was a girl today, she wouldn’t be forced to spend the night away from Daddy and Sherlock, and Papa wouldn’t have to take her away. 

Papa smiled down when they’d finished packing.

“Here you go, sweetheart,” he said, holding out Bunny’s new headband. “Don’t forget your unicorn horn.” 

But Bunny did not want to wear the headband. He no longer felt like a girl, that part of him suddenly boxed away as he worried that he’d ruined everything between himself and Sherlock, as he worried that he would never see his brother again. 

“What if I’m just a boy tonight, Papa?” Bunny asked, pulling at the bottom of his pajama shirt. “Can we stay here tonight and play with Sherlock if I’m a boy?”

Bunny’s eyes welled up with tears once more, and he rubbed his runny nose on the sleeve of his shirt. He was soon gathered into his Papa’s arms, lifted up into the air. 

“I know this is hard, Bun,” Papa said as he rocked him back and forth where he stood. 

Papa found a new pacifier in the top drawer--Daddy must have bought a few new ones for Bunny and Sherlock--and slipped it between Bunny’s lips. The boy latched on immediately, desperate for the comfort. 

“It’s been a hard day and I’m sure that head cold isn’t helping matters,” Papa said. “I promise this is for your good as much as for Sherlock’s, baby. Your Daddy and I never want you to feel like you have to hide who you are, and we certainly don’t want you to change just to make someone else comfortable.” 

“I want to stay here,” Bunny said, tears continuing to flow, the pacifier slipping from his mouth. “I’m sorry I said I’m a girl.” 

“Oh honey, I’m not sorry at all,” Papa said, hugging Bunny close and pressing the pacifier he had caught back into Bunny’s mouth. “I’m just sorry you felt you had to wait so long to tell us. I need you to know that I love you no matter what, boy or girl or otherwise. Understand?” 

Bunny nodded. He did know his Papa supported him, knew that his Papa was always looking out for the best. But he couldn’t help but feel a pain at being taken away from his Daddy and his Sherlock. 

“I can’t tell you exactly why we have to leave tonight, honey,” Papa said, “but I need you to trust Daddy and Papa. In order to make sure both you and Sherlock are always safe and happy when you’re little, we just need to give your Daddy and Sherlock some space, maybe just one night or maybe a few days. We have to trust that your Daddy can make everything alright. Do you think we can do that?”

Bunny shrugged and then nodded, attempting to put on a brave face, but he soon dissolved into tears once more. He had been so happy just a short time ago, confident and glowing with a sense of self. Now, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d ruined everything, that what he loved most about being little was being threatened. All he could do was cling to his Papa and cry, closing his eyes and wishing he could start the day over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to check out my Tumblr for oneshots linked to this series (or to click a certain button to share a cup of coffee if you're feeling generous ;p), [here](https://little-brothers-mine.tumblr.com/).


	13. Driven by Guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loves! Hope you're all doing well! It's been an up and down week for me, but I'm glad I had the chance to do some writing, which always grounds me a bit.
> 
> This chapter is low on ageplay and heavy on exposition, so feel free to skip if that's not your cup of tea. I think it's necessary for the direction I'd like the plot to take, and it didn't seem likely that John would allow himself to stay young when worried about Sherlock's well-being, so the chapter takes place when he is fully adult. 
> 
> Thank you for all of your wonderful comments--I promise to respond to all of them as soon as possible!

Greg sent a quiet Bunny off to use the loo before they left for Baker Street, and then he retreated downstairs to check in with Mycroft.  

He was worried about leaving.  Mycroft hadn’t said much when he’d called earlier, had been brusque and to the point, providing only the essential facts regarding Bunny expressing a desire to be female before mentioning the potential for grave consequences should the situation not be introduced delicately to Sherlock.  But behind the telling, beneath what anyone besides those who were close to Mycroft would have read as an emotionless recounting of details, was a nervous, building dread.  It had taken Greg more than eight months of dating Mycroft to identify the range of emotions behind each of Mycroft’s no-nonsense speech patterns, but he had become rather adept, and this particular breed of worry was one he had only ever heard on the most serious of occasions, and only ever in regards to Sherlock's welfare.  

“He knows something’s wrong,” Greg explained with a sigh as he stepped up behind Mycroft, who was washing lunch dishes at the kitchen sink.  “Asked if we could stay if he was ‘just a boy tonight.’”

There was pain in Mycroft’s expression, but he glanced across the kitchen towards the table, where Sherlock sat mumbling to himself happily and scribbling looping lines in crayon inside a dinosaur coloring book.

“I’ll explain when we have a moment,” Mycroft said, turning off the faucet and drying his hands on a dishtowel.  “It’s a rather delicate situation, although arguably one which I should have anticipated, given the direction things have been going with John.  I was ignoring the inevitability, ignorantly assuming we’d have more time."

Mycroft sighed. 

"It was rather foolish, all told,” he said.

“Hey, none of that,” Greg said, taking Mycroft by the shoulders.  “The kid felt comfortable enough to express himself as he truly was, today.  I’m not about to minimize the progress that shows, no matter what consequences it's had.  I don’t know what’s got you so worried, love, but I do know none of this is your fault.”

Mycroft looked unconvinced, as if he were about to argue against Greg’s unfailing high esteem, but they were interrupted by a clearing of the throat, and both men turned to see Bunny in the kitchen doorway, hands shoved in the pockets of his coat.

“Right.  I’ll, just--ah.  Be going, I think.”

Not Bunny, then.  John.  

Greg ran a hand down the length of his face.  He could not help but feel as if they'd somehow let the man down.  It has been Greg’s suggestion that he take Bunny to Baker Street.  He had been hoping the separation would allow John the space and time to explore the new, feminine side of Bunny without asking the lad to compromise on self-expression while Mycroft worked out the best plan for telling Sherlock.  

But Greg should have known John Watson was too much of an overthinker--even in headspace--not to have picked up on the potential danger to Sherlock which had emerged since John had gone down for a nap as Bunny.  The suggestion had been too drastic, and of course John had realized that something was wrong.  It was not unlike when Sherlock had become distraught at the lake house, after learning that Bunny had begun calling Mycroft 'Daddy.'  The man had made great progress in terms of ageplay, but he was not about to allow himself the comfort if it had the potential to harm Sherlock.

“Is he...Is he okay, then?” John asked, nodding towards the little detective, who chose a new color crayon and giggled as he added jagged, lopsided spikes to the back of a dinosaur.  

“Perfectly,” Mycroft said, taking a step forward.  “For now.  There are situations in the past which made the situation...precarious.  Volatile.”

John hummed in the back of his throat, then took a deep breath in.

“Volatile,” he said, eyebrows furrowed.  “Right.”

“John,” Greg said, stepping close to place a hand on the man’s shoulder.  “Why don't you stay?  We can talk later, once the pirate's gone up to bed.  Mycroft will explain, and we'll make a plan.”

Greg did not mention his hope that, should John stay, they could ease the Doctor back down into some semblance of headspace.  It was clear John had been pulled rather abruptly out of headspace, and Greg knew he himself hadn't exactly helped in that area. 

“I need to get back to Baker Street,” John said, shaking his head.  “Just, ah...take care of Sherlock?  Let me know if I can do...anything.”

Greg sighed.  He  wished he’d hugged the Bunny tighter; wished he hadn’t let the little one out of his sight.  But John would cling staunchly to adulthood for as long as he felt that Sherlock was in danger.  He retained a constant need to place his boyfriend before himself, and that was not a burden John was about to pass off to others.

John turned to leave, then paused.

“I’d, uh...I’d like a clue as to what exactly is going on,” he said, his back turned to Mycroft and Greg.  “At some point.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said.  “Whenever you’re ready.”

And Greg could see that Mycroft was right: even if Mycroft had been able to discuss the situation right then and there, John was not currently in a space where he would be able to fully process the particulars of the circumstances.  He would still be reeling from his sudden aging up, processing the events of the day and the residual guilt and embarrassment Greg suspected would be settling in. 

“You’ve done nothing wrong, John,” Mycroft called after John as he made his way down the hallway and into the foyer.  “This is not your fault.”

\----

John let the front door close heavily.  He stood on the front step of Mycroft’s flat, breathing in the crisp air by way of grounding himself, of settling his nerves.  Summer was settling into fall, and John was pleased that the day was hinting towards chilly; the hint of cold in the air settled into his lungs and reminded him to breathe.  He was not entirely sure what had just transpired, what was clearly still transpiring, and he felt unmoored, mind muddled.  

It had been a rather trying day, and now that he had aged up, John felt nothing but tired and confused, angry at himself for actions he had never fully thought through.  

Most of what had materialized that day seemed a passing fever dream now that his mind was free of the parameters of littlespace.  Since when did he act such a brat while little, ignoring anyone else’s needs except his own?  He had pushed Sherlock.  He had purposefully peed himself on the carpet.  He had told Mycroft he wasn’t a boy.  A frustrated blush crept to his cheeks as he stalked away from Mycroft’s stoop, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket and walking quickly, purposefully, needing to get away from Mycroft’s, needing space.

Years ago, his father had hit John when he found his sister’s dolls hidden under his bed.  They had been an old birthday present to his sister, but Harry hadn’t been the slightest bit interested in them, and they remained perched in the corner of her bedroom for months, untouched and unloved.  John took them.  He didn’t play with them, just hid them under his bed and sometimes lay on his stomach on the floor to look at them and whisper his secrets.  

It was a memory only just re-emerging.  While his father watched with a mirthless sneer, John had been forced to throw the dolls into the rubbish bin, to watch all week as food scraps and torn junk mail filled the garbage bag they sat at the bottom of.  The whole ordeal had made his parents argue, had made Harry look at him warily.   

It was clearly not a coincidence that this memory was returning after the day he'd spent.  His therapist, if he told her the story, would point to the incident as the impetus for his obsession with presenting overly masculine, the underlying cause of the years before Sherlock, when he had staunchly denied his bisexuality.  Mycroft and Sherlock would be sure to categorize the memory as the reason John’s little self was drawn to that which was coded feminine, would explain that his subconscious was using littlespace as a way to re-write a history he’d rather forget.  Greg’s reaction would be far less intellectual; he would fume and rant, detailing the ways in which he’d like to bring the bloke back from the dead in order to kill him himself.  

Sherlock had said, during their weekend at the lake house, that John had latent father issues.  John had denied it at the time, rolling his eyes and making teasing quips; but, as usual, Sherlock had been able to deduce John’s state of mind even before he himself had come to terms with his inner demons.  

Mycroft had warned him, when John first admitted to his desire to try ageplaying alongside Sherlock as something other than a caretaker.  He had explained that ageplay could lead to recollections of old memories, that its success as a coping mechanism was not linked solely to the comfort it provided.  John had done a fair amount of reading up on the subject himself, had understood why it was important for Mycroft to mention the potential side effects and emotional consequences.  But he had thought himself somehow immune.  

He'd never planned to let himself go this far, had always been able to retain a sense of his rational adult self.  Now, after only a short time of ageplaying, he’d taken things to the extreme by shifting genders while in headspace, causing pandemonium not only for himself as he attempted to swallow the shame his adult mind--still under the effects of his father--could not help but feel.  But, what was worse, he'd uprooted the ageplay dynamics for Sherlock and Mycroft, who were now forced to reconcile themselves to the fact that John was uncovering a new identity.  

John walked far, for hours, and found himself not back at Baker Street, but at the pub around the corner from the flat.  It was late-afternoon and thus the pub was quiet, only two other patrons besides the employees in the restaurant, regulars already deep into their pints.  John ordered an early dinner despite his lack of hunger so as not to group himself in with the local drunks when he ordered a pint himself.  

He could not keep his mind off of Sherlock.  John did as Sherlock bid when they were on a case, helping the man as he chased after each lead or detail in turn.  The pace of the worst ones was unnerving, and John was always left feeling exhausted and overworked.  But if John felt overtired simply from doing Sherlock's legwork, he couldn’t imagine the toll the cases took on Sherlock, who pieced details and evidence together in a constant stream of grueling, never-ending analysis.

Sherlock had fought headspace with a staunch determination, but once he’d allowed himself the comfort Mycroft was offering, the man had slipped very young, and very quickly.  He had obviously needed to calm his mind as much as possible, shifting down into his youngest self.  It was his hope that the man was still blissfully young and happy, coloring at the kitchen table or playing with his plastic animals and blocks.    

John gave a gruff thanks to the bartender when she placed a pint before him.

“Food’ll be right out, hun,” she said before returning to the other end of the bar.

He nodded, then drank deeply to offset the guilt pricking the edges of his mind.  It was only the second time in the presence of John and Greg that Sherlock had allowed himself to drop as young as he'd been that day.  The detective had obviously been signalling his need for attention, and John had ignored Sherlock’s needs in favor of his own.  He hadn’t let his boyfriend have the care he desperately needed because his behavior had forced Mycroft and Greg to place John and his crisis of identity as their highest priority.

Greg may have attempted to assure him that whatever it was that had made Mycroft so concerned about a female Bunny interacting with Sherlock was not his fault, but John had been able to see even while young that it hadn’t been exactly true.  

“Another?” the bartender asked after some time, when she came to clear John’s barely-eaten plate of food.  He’d had three already, but he nodded.  

“Yeah,” he mumbled, tipping back the dregs of his third pint before pushing the empty glass across the bar towards her.  “Thanks.”  

John lost count after his fourth pint, both of the number of beers he’d had and of the hour of the day.  The bar was perpetually dark and dingy no matter the time, but it must have been getting on towards evening as when John next looked up he found it had grown quite crowded, men and women laughing and flirting at scattered tables and all along the bar.  The change in atmosphere increased his loneliness, and he was suddenly filled with a short-tempered anger when, some time later, one of a group of passing blokes knocked against him.

“Sorry, mate,” the young man said before continuing towards an open table with his friends, all of whom were wearing identical footie jerseys.

But John was not in a position to let the man’s carelessness slide, and he was on his feet with threatening epithets in an instant, body posed for fighting.  The younger man held up his hands and apologized again, but John lunged, and soon found himself in the midst of a shouting, scrambling bar fight.  

He was too drunk to care who he hit with his brandished fists, and soon found strong arms wrapped around his chest as he was dragged from the pub and thrown out onto the street.  He was suddenly on all fours on the sidewalk, stumbling to his feet and struggling to gain his balance.  

“Get outta here ‘fore I call the coppers,” yelled the Irish man whom John vaguely recognized as the owner of the pub.  

The shock to his system when he’d landed hard on the cement had steadied him a bit, and he no longer felt the type of blind anger which had prompted him to take a swing at the poor bloke who had been at the wrong end of John’s tough day.

“Jeez, ah, sorry,” he said, reaching for his wallet in order to cover his bill.  “I’ll just…”

“I said get outta here,” the man barked, nodding down the street as he took a menacing step towards John.     

John held his hands up to show he meant no harm, then leaned forward as far as he dared to drop the bills onto the sidewalk.  The man glared, but reached a foot to drag the money close.  John ran a hand through his hair, setting it right again, nodded one more apology, and turned to walk away.

The blocks surrounding Baker Street were crowded, and John did his best to keep from stumbling into passing couples and groups.  His mind was muddled from the beer, and he had a hard time even recalling what day it was.  It must be the weekend, given the number of people out and about around the pubs.  

It was with relief that he placed his key into the lock of 221b Baker Street and dragged himself up the staircase to the flat.  He walked carefully, then stumbled on the top step and had to reach out to clasp the bannister in order to steady himself.  He paused, hoping the noise hadn’t drawn the attention of Mrs. Hudson.  He had definitely had one too many.

But after a moment which seemed to assure him that Mrs. Hudson was not about to poke her head out of her flat to check on the ruckus, John managed to get the smaller of his two keys into the door of their flat, and he let himself in.  It was a relief to be home, in the silent calm after the rush of noise and activity he’d left behind at the bar.

But the flat was not silent.  As John shrugged off his jacket and turned to head upstairs to his bedroom, he distinctly heard the cling of a spoon in a teacup.  He paused, one foot on the staircase, and sighed.  

“I’m fine, Mycroft,” he called, eyes closed in frustration.  

Of course the man hadn’t been able to leave him alone, of course he had pushed himself in to take his old seat at the table he and John discussed ageplay matters, never mind that John had not requested his presence.  When had Mycroft ever been cognizant of correct timing?

He heard the scrape of a chair against the kitchen lino and then footsteps as the man crossed into the living room.    

“Fine enough that you’ve spent the afternoon downing four--no, five--pints?  Fine enough that you’ve gotten yourself into a bar brawl with a clumsy footie player and then tossed out onto the pavement?”

John turned and cocked his head, suddenly taken aback.  Because it was not Mycroft staring at him from the other end of the living room; it was Sherlock.  

“What the...?  Footie player?” he asked, ignoring the questions he should be asking in favor of the closest one at hand.

“Angle of the bruise on your cheek,” Sherlock said with pompous indifference.

“Sherlock,” John warned, signalling his lack of patience for Sherlock’s fibs.

“Oh alright,” Sherlock said, nodding towards the front windows.  “The lot of them passed by half an hour ago.  Prattling on and on about their insufferable victory.  Balance of Probability.”

John breathed a laugh, surprised as always by Sherlock's antics, then ran a hand along the back of his neck.  

“I, ah...we should probably...talk, eventually,” he said.  

Sherlock stepped forward until he was close, and John felt sobered in the man’s presence.  Despite the portion of his mind which worried Sherlock had been pulled too quickly from the headspace he had so needed, there was a relief to knowing he had his boyfriend back for the moment, a relief to knowing he was safe and within reach.  He had to force himself not to allow his head to drop down onto Sherlock’s chest.

“Probably,” Sherlock said, reaching out to place a hand on the back of John’s neck in order to pull him close.  “But I think the key word there is ‘eventually,’ don’t you?”  

And then John’s head was against Sherlock’s chest, and John felt nothing but a tired, grateful exhaustion.  It was a comfort that Sherlock didn’t feel the need to discuss the multitude of shifting thoughts and emotions at that exact moment.  There were questions each man had, questions they could answer for each other and ones they could not, but, to John’s great relief, they were questions that could wait until morning.  

For now, Sherlock led his boyfriend up the stairs, and they stripped down and fell into bed.  John’s breathing steadied as they lay bare chest to bare chest, pretending for a moment that his only worry was how he would build up the energy to pull the sheet over their intertwined bodies.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr, [here](https://little-brothers-mine.tumblr.com/), for one-shots or to share a cup of coffee :)


	14. Good Mornings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi loves! Thanks for your kind comments on the last chapter!
> 
> Lots of upfront warnings that this chapter is NSFW and is primarily smut. Both boys are fully adult while fooling around, but if you're in this just for the ageplay (which is more than okay!), you'll likely want to skip this chapter and join us again next time when the boys are feeling less frisky. We'll get back to your regularly scheduled ageplay programming soon :) 
> 
> Official warnings: omorashi, holding/wetting, mutual masturbation, praise kink
> 
> Hope you're all doing well! xoxo

Sherlock woke with a groan, casting an arm over his eyes to shield himself from the light streaming through John’s bedroom window. He prefered when they slept in his bed downstairs. His curtains were heavier, and the morning light never seemed quite so harsh from the other side of the flat. 

John woke at Sherlock’s movement, yawning awake and turning to him with a smile. 

“Morning,” he said, leaning close and nuzzling his nose against Sherlock’s neck. 

Sherlock hummed into John’s touch as the doctor rolled towards him, and smirked when the hand that was still down by his side brushed against the stiffness in John’s pajama pants. Sherlock had woken half-hard himself, and he had to admit the prospect of acting on his building arousal not altogether unappealing. He twisted his wrist and cupped his hand over John’s crotch. John gave a content, grateful moan. 

“Glad I came back to you?” Sherlock asked, unable to keep the smugness from his voice. 

“Very,” John said, shifting his hips just enough to gain friction against Sherlock’s palm. 

Sherlock lifted his arm off of his eyes and turned from his back onto his side, getting his first glimpse of the man beside him. John’s eyes were half-lidded, the man allowing himself to languidly bask in the pleasure of sharing a bed with his boyfriend, who currently had his hand cupped around his genitals.

“What made you come back yesterday?” he asked. “Why did you age up?” 

Sherlock shrugged, shifting himself a bit closer to John. They spoke low although they knew they were the only ones in the flat, as if reveling in the intimacy of the moment.

“Mycroft wouldn’t tell me why you’d left,” he explained. “It pulled me out of headspace.”

John’s eyes flicked open, and he turned to Sherlock with an expression of amusement.

“You were worried about me?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed.

Sherlock scoffed, rolling away from John with a snort.

“Of course not,” he said, but John’s eyebrow was raised, and the man was grinning.

“You were worried about me,” he said, looking unreservedly content to have found empirical proof that Sherlock cared about him. 

Sherlock leaned in and kissed him, hard and without warning, to wipe the goofy grin off of his face. John smiled, too, opening his mouth to breathe a laugh and returning the favor as he took Sherlock’s lower lip into his mouth for a moment before reaching to intertwine his fingers through the mussed curls at the back of Sherlock’s head and snogging him in return, pulling him close once more. He guided Sherlock’s hand down beneath the sheets until it was back in place, cupped around his groin.

“That’s better,” he smirked as they kissed. 

It was John who pulled away after some time, making a distressed noise at the back of his throat and rutting himself quite forcefully against Sherlock’s hand.

“Have to get up,” he said, looking rather disappointed. “Need the loo.”

Sherlock’s cock twitched at the admission, and he glanced towards John with a mischievous smirk. John’s face was flushed from the kissing or the embarrassment, and Sherlock could feel the man’s lower body twitching; it was clear John was rather desperate. It was also clear from the way that John was hardening beneath his hand and showing no signs of immediately leaving the bed, that he wasn’t unhappy about the weight in his bladder. 

“Don’t get up,” Sherlock breathed.

Sherlock tensed his hold, squeezing John’s groin with a strong, sure grasp, and and now John was tilting his head back and shifting his hips again, desperate for release in more ways than one.

“I have to,” he breathed, but he mewled when Sherlock squeezed his crotch once more. 

“You don't have to," Sherlock said. "Be a good boy and hold it."

John moaned, pupils dilating at Sherlock's words. He nodded, twisting his hips as he fought against the need in his bladder. Sherlock loved to see John like this: needy and submissive and half-undone.

John wasn’t usually this pliable when they were intimate. Yes, he let Sherlock lead more often than not, allowing him to initiate and take charge, but that had more to do with John’s lingering issues with his sexuality than it did with his own desires. John always retained an ironic glint in his eyes when they messed around, as if he were merely giving in for the sake of Sherlock, not himself. It was a habit which spoke to his inability to fully accept himself as a bisexual man; clinging to that stubborn sense of irony had always seemed to keep him from giving into Sherlock completely. 

But the look on his face currently was one of complete, lovely surrender. 

“You’re beautiful like this,” Sherlock said, running his free hand along John’s stomach and chest before letting his lips meet John’s once more.

John had none of the desire for humiliation and insults which turned Sherlock into such a sloppy mess whenever he was holding his piss; the doctor was quite the opposite. Watching John’s behaviors in headspace had allowed Sherlock to understand that it was praise John craved, a salve for his insecurities and a reprieve from his constant humility.  


Sherlock was all too happy to oblige if it meant he was left with this form of John beside him, gasping and grateful. 

“I have to go,” John said after they’d been kissing for quite some time, Sherlock teasing John’s by running his free hand over his distended bladder. “Oh, fuck, I have to go.”

“You’re doing so well,” Sherlock said, beginning to stroke his hand along John’s hardening cock through his pajamas. 

“I can’t hold it,” John gasped, “I’m going to...oh, god.”

Sherlock felt the fabric at John’s crotch dampening, could feel the muscles of his stomach tense as he struggled to keep from losing complete control. 

“Fuck, I can’t…,” John breathed, twisting his legs around the hand in his crotch and nearly thrashing in bed as he regained control of himself. “Sherlock, I’m going to wet myself...oh god...the mattress.”

Had they been in Sherlock’s bed, the mattress would not have been of concern; Sherlock’s plastic mattress cover had been securely tucked onto his bed long before John had even moved into Baker Street. But John was not prone to bedwetting while he slept, except for the occasional accident while in headspace. They almost always shared Sherlock’s bed when they were little, and, as such, John’s mattress was unprotected.

“It will clean,” Sherlock said. 

John swore and another burst of wetness spread against Sherlock’s palm. Sherlock shoved his thigh between John’s legs, pressing his crotch against John’s hip, desperate for his own breed of release. 

“Fuck, I’m going to do it,” John said, tensing his thighs around Sherlock’s in an effort to keep control. “I can’t...ah…” 

“You’re doing so well,” Sherlock said, breathless. “Such a good boy. Such a strong boy.” 

The praise sunk John into whimpering submission as he let out a cry of distress that was just as much a cry of pleasure, and urine streamed hard and fast against Sherlock’s thigh as John lost control. 

“I’m pissing,” he said, swearing and shoving his hand between their bodies in an attempt to grasp at his crotch. “Oh, fuck, I can’t stop it. I’m wetting myself.”

Sherlock could not take his eyes off of his boyfriend; there was such a wild beauty in John in the moment he lost control. His pupils were blown and his breath ragged; John was uninhibitedly helpless and so, so needy. 

“That’s lovely,” Sherlock said, busy with his own cock, which he rutted against John’s hip furiously before snatching his fingers from where they had been pressing along John’s groin and shoving them into his own pajama trousers. “Piss your pants for me, love.” 

Sherlock came when Joan next moaned, calling out and reveling in the warm mess streaming from John’s cock to wet the sheets beneath them. He did not take his eyes from John even after he’d finished, and, as soon as it was clear John’s bladder was empty, he snaked his fingers down over the band of John’s underwear until he had pulled his cock free of the soaking wet fabric. 

“Oh god, Sherlock,” John moaned. “I need to…”

“You did so well,” Sherlock said, knowing just what John needed and just how to get him there. “Good boy. Held it just like a big boy.”

It had been a bit of a gamble on Sherlock’s part, using baby-talk while they were anything but. But Sherlock had a hunch John’s praise kink resided in the lack of approval he had received as a child, and given that most sexual desires were based on impulses from childhood, it was unsurprising that John moaned loudly enough at the comment, frotting against Sherlock’s hand involuntarily as he climaxed and came over the wet sheets, that Sherlock was compelled to shut him up with a kiss, worried Mrs. Hudson might complain. He filed away the reaction, vowing to explore more in good time. 

“Fuck,” John breathed, riding out his orgasm and collapsing back onto the bed.

Sherlock's mind was stimulated, racing with possibilities and new understandings. They’d done a bit of dominance play in the past, but it had always been John who had taken charge, slotting himself into what he must have seen as the more acceptable role. They were nights John was drunk and his inhibitions were low enough to command and to degrade and to call Sherlock _cadet_. The roles had never been so fully reversed as they were now, and although Sherlock more than enjoyed John's dominant streak when it emerged, he was intrigued by the way in which he'd been able to settle John down into submission, had been content and aroused watching John squirm. 

“So, about that praise kink…” Sherlock said before both men had even had time to catch their breath.

“Shut up,” John said, but a moment later he released himself from any embarrassment, and laughed. 

Sherlock was propped up on his elbows, hovering just above John, memorizing the way his forehead sheened with sweat. John’s hand came to find the closest of Sherlock’s, fingers intertwining in a gesture of gratefulness. But Sherlock could not help but tease.

“Mycroft has no idea just how debauched his _little boy_ is when Daddy’s not looking.”

John snorted a laugh and rolled over to pull Sherlock back down to the bed by the neck of his t-shirt. He gave him a sloppy kiss on the side of his mouth.

“Shut up or I’ll tell Anderson you’re actually capable of being nice,” he said, falling back against the pillow, still catching his breath. “Then again, I’m not sure I want anyone else to know. They might realize how sexy it is, coming from you.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes but bent to pepper kisses along John’s collarbone.

“Sentiment,” he said with a sneer, but there was understanding in his eye when he glanced up at John, a joke about the ways in which Sherlock stubbornly refused to acknowledge just how much he loved his boyfriend.

“I should get in the shower,” John said. 

But he made no attempt to move, and Sherlock rested his head against John’s chest, tilting his gaze towards the doctor.

“Why did you leave Mycroft’s yesterday?” he asked, cheek warm against John’s skin. “Something must have happened which compelled you to self-soothe with more than your usual two and a half pints.”

John was running his hand absently through Sherlock’s hair, and he tilted his chin down to glance at the man pressed against him.

“Mycroft really didn’t say anything to you?” he asked.

“Not that I remember,” Sherlock said. “I was in fairly deep, however, and details don’t stick as well as they would otherwise. Part of the appeal, generally.” 

“We should get cleaned up,” John said, pressing himself up onto his elbows and causing Sherlock to whine as he was jostled. “You get in the shower. I’ll take care of the bedding and then join you.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow towards John.

“Just to clean up,” John said, voice firm albeit a tinge amused, shutting down any hints Sherlock may be dropping about other activities they may get up to in the shower. “It’s best if we talk before Mycroft and Greg show up on our doorstep.”

Sherlock groaned. 

“Which is unfortunately inevitable,” he said, shifting to allow John to edge his way out from under the soaked bedding and off of the mattress. “Don’t they have anything better to do with their lives than interfere in ours?”

John yanked the duvet off of the mattress into a pile on the floor, then began stripping himself of his wet pajama trousers, which were hanging heavy on his hips.  
“Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” he said, and Sherlock hummed noncommittally.

“Get up,” John said, yanking Sherlock by an ankle to force him into movement. “You’re getting the mattress wet.”

Sherlock rolled over and forced himself to stand with another groan. He knew John was right, that it was best that they compared information and formed a game plan before being forced to have a conversation with Mycroft and Greg. But that didn’t make it any easier to leave John’s bed and the comfort of their private life.  
“Serves you right for pissing on me,” Sherlock said.

He stepped to the end of the bed and leaned to peck John--who was stripping the bed of its sheets--on the lips before making his way to the bathroom.

“Be a good boy,” Sherlock called over his shoulder as he stepped into the bathroom, teasing John for the way he’d earlier responded to such comments. 

He ducked behind the door to shield himself when John hurled a pillow after him, then peeked out from behind the door to smirk until John rolled his eyes and told him to stop being so damn cheeky. 

Sherlock winked and retreated to turn on the shower as John carried the bedding out of the room towards the laundry.  
There were questions to be answered and issues to address, but Sherlock was unconcerned, confident in the fact that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had not yet met a puzzle they couldn’t solve. The surety was a bit of bravado on Sherlock’s part; there were unsolved cases and unresolved emotional issues in their pasts which remained glaringly unsolved. But Sherlock was still riding the high of the morning, replaying John’s gasping breaths over in his mind, and he was inclined to allow himself the foolishness of selective memory, if only for a moment.


	15. Comparing Notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loves! Hope you're all doing well.
> 
> It's such a relief when a chapter comes easily and I know the exact direction I want to take the narrative. This one was basically fully formed in my mind when I sat down to write it (a super welcome relief after the past 4 or 5 chapters of this story, which felt a bit like pulling teeth), and, as a result, you're all getting an update much earlier than expected. 
> 
> No warnings in this chapter except for some mentions of hungover John being nauseous if you're feeling squeamish. We're not back to ageplay just yet--the boys have a bit to work through before they can allow themselves to slip back down into headspace, but hopefully they'll be on the way back to young after the next chapter. 
> 
> Lastly, thank you to Simi, falc0nwing, and tiaoconnell for pointing out that Mycroft will not be a very happy camper given the way John chose to use alcohol to numb his emotions throughout chapter 13. That idea was spot-on, and allowed for some interesting teasing between Sherlock and John in this chapter. You were all right that Mycroft will likely have words (or punishments) for John in regards to his drinking, and I'm interested to explore what that might look like in the next chapter or two! 
> 
> Sending you all Bunny kisses :)

John finished getting dressed for the day and met Sherlock in the kitchen, where the man was scanning the crime section of the Times. Sometime between starting the laundry and joining Sherlock in the shower, John’s head had begun to pound, and the sight of the cereal Sherlock had poured himself caused John’s stomach to churn. After the arousal and the stimulation of the morning in bed, John's body had unfortunately decided to remind him that he’d had far too much to drink the night before. 

“Serves you right,” Sherlock said without glancing up from the newspaper spread over the table in front of him, obviously having deduced John’s plight.

John groaned and fished in the cabinet for aspirin, popping the top from the bottle and tipping the pills into his palm. He turned on the faucet and cupped his hand beneath the stream of water in order to drink down the pills, then filled the kettle and turned the burner to high. 

“Mycroft is going to know,” Sherlock said, gesturing towards John with a spoonful of cereal. “You’re not exactly inconspicuous when hungover.”

“Not if you don’t tell him,” John said, voice warning. He paused, running a hand down his face in an attempt to keep the dizziness at bay. “I’m still getting over this head cold. He might just assume I’m still ill.” 

It was a gamble, given that Mycroft was as adept at deductions as Sherlock, particularly when it came to John or Sherlock, both of whom Mycroft could generally read quite easily. 

“And the bruise on your cheek from where the other bloke clocked you?”

“Barely noticeable,” John shrugged, reaching with his fingers to rub at his cheekbone with a wince, as if it were possible to make the yellowing skin disappear.

Sherlock hummed as if to say they would just wait and see, and John chose to ignore the man’s self-assured smarminess. There were points to discuss and gameplans to make, and Sherlock looked too handsome at the moment--hair still wet from the shower, eyes content after the fun of their morning, hiding none of the usual Sherlockian restlessness--to argue against.

“Tell me what you know,” Sherlock said once the tea had boiled and John had settled himself next to Sherlock at the table.

“Can you, ah…” John gestured to the now half-empty bowl beside Sherlock, cereal floating soggy and abandoned in the discolored milk.

“Oh, is your _head cold_ making you nauseous?” Sherlock teased. 

“Just…” John stood too quickly and had to close his eyes against the dizziness and the nausea. “Give it to me, Sherlock. You’re not going to eat any more of it.” 

Sherlock sighed and passed the bowl to John, who managed to get it into the sink behind him without having to stare long at the disintegrating bits of cereal. His stomach settled a bit when he was seated once more, and he wrapped his hands around the tea cup to ground himself. 

“It’s 9:45 at the moment,” Sherlock said, his voice now no-nonsense where it had been glib a moment before. “I estimate we have another hour at the most. Start explaining.” 

John sighed, resting his arms on the table. 

“It’s not as easy as all that, Sherlock,” he said. “I’m not sure, ah, where to begin, exactly.”

“Well, for the sake of argument let’s pretend I’ve given you sufficient time to hem and haw over the embarrassment you feel regarding your choice to identify as female while young yesterday and move along to what made you age up and leave Mycroft’s flat so abruptly.”

John blinked at Sherlock, unsure whether to be amazed or angry. He’d been dreading discussing yesterday for the very reason Sherlock had just mentioned, not keen to process his conflicting emotions over his gender identity while little with his--at times, rather insensitive--boyfriend. Sherlock had been young enough that John had even questioned whether he'd even been aware of John's decision to express himself as feminine. Clearly, he hadn't given Sherlock enough credit. 

“I don’t lose the ability to hear or to see when I’m young, John,” Sherlock said with a sigh, as if tired by John’s shock. “And, because I know you likely didn’t believe me the first time this issue came up: it’s fine. I don’t have nearly as many gender-hang-ups as you. Any anger or displeasure regarding your choice of gender which may or may not be displayed by my younger self is firmly rooted in selfish jealousy over the attention it brings to you and not, I can assure you, rooted in disgust of any kind.”

John’s hungover mind was spinning a bit as he attempted to process Sherlock’s litany of points. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt regarding the events of yesterday now that his mind was not numbed by alcohol. In headspace, it had all felt so comfortable and right to identify as female, but, as soon as he'd aged up, he'd been forced to stifle thoughts that he’d acted irrationally, that he'd drawn unnecessary attention away from Sherlock. 

“Furthermore,” Sherlock continued, seemingly unaware that John was not entirely following. “Although I’m more than content for you to express yourself as female when or if you’d like to, I predict that it will not be something you desire more than the occasional day or night here and there. It's glaringly apparent that your psyche is rather fixed on working through your own childhood experiences in this regard, meaning that you will mirror that which you felt as a child by remaining attached to what have generally been coded feminine items. However, now that you’ve gone through the process of testing the levels of Mycroft and Lestrade's acceptance and thus soothing your worries about the real issue, which is your association with stereotypically 'girly' items, you won’t have nearly as much drive to label your gender quite so specifically."

The confusion John had felt had not dissipated despite his reckless drinking the night before. The worry and guilt he’d felt when leaving Mycroft’s had returned that morning as he'd stepped from the shower and the reality of the day and their upcoming reconciliation with Mycroft and Greg settled around them. He could not help but be reminded that it was, after all, his fault that Sherlock had felt compelled to pull himself out of headspace, his fault that Mycroft and Greg had been so on edge.

“I’m sure there will be days it might suit you to do so,” Sherlock rambled on, a bit thoughtfully, as if coming to additional conclusions in the process of launching into a full analysis of John’s mental state. “But it will be for convenience or needed attention more than to quell a driving need. I doubt it will become any sort of default, but whatever the future case may be, your actions yesterday are perfectly rooted in the psychology of childhood experiences and impulses, and there’s no need for you to feel such embarrassment or shame regarding them.”

John forced himself to turn his attention back to the man at his side, and could not help but breathe a laugh. In less than five minutes, Sherlock Holmes had analyzed and deconstructed thoughts John was only in the beginning stages of processing, had rationalized questions John hadn't known were being posed. And although the deluge of information was rather overwhelming, John could see that at the heart of Sherlock's little speech was a motivation to calm John's fears and worries, and, for that, he was grateful. 

“Ironically enough,” Sherlock continued, seemingly unaware of John’s amused staring, “the items you were drawn to in childhood were those that Harry herself rejected as she struggled with her own questions of sexuality. Your predilection likely stemmed from an unconscious belief that your sister’s life was easier than your own and a subconscious desire to therefore claim for yourself all that Harry was given as the female, and youngest child, of the family. But there’s an interesting point to be made given Harry's sexuality and the dichotomy between---”

“---Sherlock,” John said as he broke into a smile, feeling affection for the man despite needing Sherlock to stop, knowing the man would continue delving further into John’s past and psychological hang-ups if he were not forced to pause his train of thought. “Sherlock, that’s enough.” 

Sherlock was surprised when he met John’s gaze, perhaps taken aback by the interruption or the warmth in John’s tone. But in the next moment he seemed to realize that John had received his point, that he felt Sherlock was currently putting on a bit of a needlessly detailed display. 

Sherlock cleared his throat and settled against the back of his chair. 

“All of that is to say,” he said, quieter and a bit adorably frustrated that he'd been stifled in the act of showing off, “you don’t need to worry. I’m not judging you.” 

Sherlock's prattling had begun to make his hungover brain spin, but this final statement was a welcomed one, and Sherlock’s assurance that he was not discontent or frustrated by any female identification settled John. He felt calmer knowing that Sherlock accepted him. 

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John said, reaching for the man's hand. “Unfortunately, I'm not sure it’s as simple as you understanding or supporting my choices. My, ah...my new identification seemed to trigger something in Mycroft. A very real worry about how to introduce the topic to you. Greg was prepared to take me away to Baker Street for the night.”

This piece of information piqued Sherlock's interest.

“They’ve never separated us before,” he said, eyebrows furrowed as he began sorting through what John knew would be the multiple possibilities for such behavior swirling in his mind. "And it was only once you’d fully expressed your desire to be labeled female that Mycroft became concerned. He hasn’t felt the need to bar me from seeing you before this point, even when you were dressed in a nightgown or playing with paper dolls.”

John attempted to ignore the blush coming to his cheeks in order to follow Sherlock’s train of thought.

“So it’s not the items he’s concerned about,” he proposed. “It’s specifically a female figure. And he’s...what? Worried it will unsettle you in some way?”

“Worried it will unhinge old memories, more like,” Sherlock said, clearly interested in following the facts through to their conclusion.

Sherlock was sinking into himself, growing further contemplative as he began to piece the scattered hints of information into understanding. 

“So there must be a female in your past that will recall trauma of some kind,” John said, but Sherlock shook his head.

“Not just any female, John, but a female child. A female child tied in some way to my own childhood. He’s never before been wary or cautious about introducing a women into ageplay--my brother doesn’t keep much company with them, but there was one rather regrettable day at the office when I showed up young and rather prone to misbehavior.”

“Little Sherlock _misbehaving_?” John could not help but ask sarcastically. “Never.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking smug.

“You know, I might just be inclined to drop some hints in Mycroft’s presence about the state of your scraped palms,” Sherlock said, gesturing with his chin towards John’s hands. “Those wounds are pretty consistent with catching yourself after a fall to the pavement, aren’t they, Dr. Watson?”

John curled his hands into fists to hide the reddened, scabbing scrapes at the base of his palms, then raised one hand in surrender before crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.

“That day, at the office. He called his assistant in for some asinine task, just to keep me in check,” Sherlock continued. “It was a power play, a way to show me he had ways of controlling my behavior."

John was not entirely following, and Sherlock sighed.

"The salient point, John," he said, "is that he was not concerned her presence would unhinge me in any way at the time.”

John understood.

“Meaning it’s not the presence of a woman but the presence of a...a young girl that he somehow believes dangerous.” he said, nodding.

“Precisely,” Sherlock said, but his gaze was far off, contemplative. 

“So what is it he doesn’t want you to remember?” John asked. “Some school-yard bully? A cousin you didn’t get on with?”

But Sherlock was not responding to his conjectures, no longer listening. The consulting detective was deep in thought, already in the midst of his mind palace. 

John did not dare to leave his side, at least not until Mycroft and Greg had arrived. He poured another cup of tea while he sat with the consulting detective and tried to quell his unsettled stomach and pounding head. He watched the brilliant mind at work, and hoped he hadn’t made a mistake. He'd provided Sherlock with the potential clues needed to recall what he knew from Mycroft's nervous state to be a painful, destructive memory; there was the possibility that Sherlock would be changed, that their ageplay world would be altered. The pit in John's stomach grew, and he sat, body tense, willing Mycroft and Greg to arrive quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my tumblr if you haven't read the latest ficlet in this series "Lost Boy" (my gift to the wonderful whispered), [here](https://little-brothers-mine.tumblr.com/) :)


	16. Remember Carefully

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loves! 
> 
> This chapter has been basically finished for a few days now, but has been giving me a TON of trouble--I've gone back to edit again and again but still haven't felt that it's as successful as I'd like it to be. Depicting Mycroft's intentions and motivations was tough without getting into my usual trap of over-explaining, but I tried to pare the exposition down to only what was necessary. Maybe I'll come back and edit a bit, but I figured I should probably just get it up and move forward. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts and please feel free to pass along constructive criticism. Hopefully Mycroft's motivation/gameplan throughout this chapter makes sense, but if you have questions or suggestions for making things more cohesive/clear, let me know. I'm excited to get back to ageplay in the next chapter (preview: regressed little Sherlock crying over his lost dog *sob*)
> 
> Hope you're all well :)
> 
> xoxo

It was nearly eleven by the time Mycroft arrived at Baker Street. Greg had planned to come along, worried after both John and Sherlock had left Mycroft’s flat the previous day, but he’d been called away just after breakfast.

“Be gentle,” he’d said as he pecked Mycroft on the lips that morning, shrugging into his coat in his rush to the station. “I’ll finish up at work as soon as I can.”

They had spent their evening without children discussing the circumstances surrounding Mycroft’s worry, and although he had not told Greg everything--leaving out the fact that Eurus was alive and utilized for the government’s gain from time to time--Mycroft had discussed the Holmes children’s childhood in far greater detail than he’d ever hoped would be required. 

Greg, to his credit, had taken in the facts without any of the histrionics others might have. He sat and listened without judgment, a man used to containing his reactions. 

“And Sherlock has no recollection of her?” was all he asked when Mycroft had ceased his explanations. 

“Certainly not,” Mycroft said. He’d left his dinner untouched despite Greg’s insistence that he eat. “I’ve monitored quite closely, particularly after extended periods of time when he’s been young, and thus the most vulnerable to the memories.”

“What’s the plan, then?” Greg had asked, hoisting himself up to spoon another serving of rice onto his plate. “We can’t very well keep Sherlock separate every time the little one’s feeling like a girl.” 

“I don’t know, yet,” Mycroft said, eyes distant. “But I’ll figure it out.”

He’d been up most of the night, sitting still in his office, contemplating their options. Greg had, for the most part, left him to it, only checking in twice: once in an attempt to get him to eat more of the dinner he’d barely touched, and once, after he’d realized food was a lost cause, to pass along a glass of bourbon. 

“Can I help?” Greg asked. 

Greg had grown quite close to Sherlock, had begun to understand the man’s younger self just about as well as anyone. But this was a family matter, and it had the potential to impact Sherlock’s adult state of mind just as greatly as his younger. Only Mycroft had the full subset of knowledge necessary to anticipate the myriad ways Sherlock may be affected. He needed to be alone. 

Mycroft shook his head, but reached out to catch Greg’s hand before he left, squeezing it in thanks. 

He’d known Eurus was likely to come to light at some point. The deeper Sherlock fell into the web of criminal activities, the greater the likelihood became that a crime would trigger his memory of their sister’s cruelty or bring him into contact with Sherringford. And if it were not crime-solving that had the highest likelihood of setting Sherlock’s memory stirring, it was ageplaying. As his baseline eight or nine years, little Sherlock was free of the memories of Eurus, who had been safely tucked away just before that point in his life. But as Sherlock began to spend more and more time in his youngest headspaces, opportunities arose for him to recall memories from when he was biologically young enough to remember Eurus’s particular strain of inhumanity.

Mycroft rang the doorbell at 221b Baker Street, choosing to wait for a response rather than use his spare key. The boys were adult, and Mycroft meant to show them respect. He kept his head held high as he listened for the clomping down the staircase that told him it was John coming to let him in. 

John looked rather pekid when he pulled open the door. Mycroft’s thoughts turned from Sherlock to John as he took in the bloated circles under the smaller man’s eyes and the yellowing bruise on his cheek. John mumbled a good morning and ran a hand over the back of his neck as he glanced down towards the floor. Hungover, then, and shifty enough that he was he nervous about being found out, which likely meant he’d made a show of himself at the pub. 

Mycroft hummed, lips pursed, but allowed John to lead him upstairs, for the moment turning his attention away from his disappointed frustration over John’s choice of coping mechanism in order to prepare himself for the conversation he needed to have with Sherlock. It was rare Mycroft Holmes doubted, but when it came to his younger brother, he was particularly susceptible to second guessing. 

“He’s, ah. In the kitchen,” John said when they’d reached the landing, taking Mycroft’s proffered coat. 

When he turned the corner and stepped into the kitchen, he knew immediately that Sherlock--sitting still with his elbows on the table, fingers steepled before him--was deep in thought. There would be no point in disturbing him before he’d worked out the current chain of contemplation, so Mycroft pulled out a chair and settled down to wait. John hovered in the doorway, clearly attempting to keep his distance. 

“We will be discussing your recklessness last night at the bar,” Mycroft said, causing John to clear his throat and self-consciously rub at the bruise on his cheek. “For now, tell me what the two of you discussed.”

“We, ah…” John stuttered. “I told him you were worried after...worried about how to tell Sherlock I was a, a girl…”

Mycroft knew John would have filled Sherlock in on his understanding of the events as they had occurred the day before, and thus he was well aware his brother was currently attempting to piece together an explanation. Sherlock’s powers of deduction were well-honed, but his blind spots generally revolved around his own emotional stakes. It was unlikely Sherlock would deduce every hidden memory Mycroft had been protecting him from, at least not from only the scattered, second-hand information he had at hand. But he was too discerning not to recall something, and that was what Mycroft was banking on.

He’d come to determine that the best course of action was to let Sherlock’s deductions--however off-base or scattered--become truth. 

His brother was desperate for answers, and his egocentrism assured he’d look for validation regarding whatever memories had come to light. John was generally so impressed with Sherlock’s powers of deduction that he had ceased questioning them. If Mycroft played his cards well, he could convince Sherlock and John that Sherlock had stumbled upon the salient facts without having to pass along every grim detail. He just had to ensure Sherlock did not realize the ploy. 

“...And then Sherlock realized it must be a female child involved,” John was saying, verbose in his chagrined state, “because you hadn’t been hesitant in the past to have him associate with women while--” 

Mycroft held up a hand to silence John, who paused and followed Mycroft’s gaze towards Sherlock. The consulting detective lowered his hands from in front of his face, seeming to once again gain awareness of the room and those around him.

“Redbeard,” he mumbled, blinking back to consciousness. “Redbeard.” 

Mycroft cleared his throat and leaned towards Sherlock. The best case scenario would have been that a false memory would have come to light, some asinine remembrance about the rather unfortunate nanny who had tormented Sherlock with her refusal to leave him be. But he’d known it was a false hope; his brother was too perceptive to not have ascertained something at least tangentially tied to Eurus. 

“She wouldn’t tell me where he was,” Sherlock said, contemplative.

“Who?” John asked when Mycroft remained silent, surveying Sherlock as he waited for the man to speak further. He needed to understand the boundaries of Sherlock’s insight before potentially letting on more than he needed to. 

“I don’t know, exactly,” Sherlock said. He turned his contemplative gaze toward Mycroft. “There was a riddle...a rhyme to…”

It was a relief that Sherlock seemed to not have placed an identity to the girl he’d remembered. If Mycroft acted quickly, he may still be able to keep that particular association hidden. It was time to adopt the most fitting role. 

He sighed, running a hand down his face in a show of exasperation.

“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, Sherlock,” he said, voice grim. “There are secrets best left forgotten.”

“Who was she, Mycroft?” John asked, and thank god for the man’s protective streak as his anger gave Mycroft the chance to play at being frustrated, which distracted from what otherwise may have been a rather tricky lie to play off. 

“A rather unfortunate neighbor girl,” Mycroft said, raising his hands out to his sides and adding a bit of defensiveness to his tone, as if he found John’s question demanding. “Just around Sherlock’s age. Tormented him to no end. Rather intelligent, but had a certain propensity for taking things that did not belong to her.”

Mycroft was careful to give plausible specifics without triggering additional memories. He could see that Sherlock was taking in the information with skepticism, reading into Mycroft’s body language as well as his words. He needed to track his brother’s affectation carefully as he continued. 

“And she took…?” John asked, hovering in restless anticipation over the kitchen table between the Holmes brothers.

“Redbeard,” Sherlock provided, his gaze fixed but turned off into the distance. “He was my--”

“Sherlock’s dog,” Mycroft said.

He did not know whether Sherlock remembered Victor Trevor or still conceptualized Redbeard as a dog, but he was hoping he could perpetuate the myth of the pet a bit longer with his insistence, whichever the case. There was a bit of doubt in Sherlock’s expression when Mycroft turned his attention away from John, but the man did not refute Mycroft’s statement.

“I wanted to spare you from this, Sherlock,” Mycroft said with a sigh.

“I don’t understand,” John said with a bit of a scoffing laugh. “You were worried because some little girl stole his dog when they were kids?”

Mycroft paused, then deliberately cocked his head towards his brother. Sherlock, last Mycroft had known, was under the impression they’d needed to put the dog down. But if that had been the case, Mycroft would not have been so concerned, and Sherlock would not have recalled Redbeard as connected to a young girl. Many children had experiences losing a pet to euthanasia. If Redbeard had faced the same fate, why would Mycroft have taken such care to keep the memory contained?

It was a question he needed Sherlock to answer. Mycroft could not—would not—reveal the horrors of their little sister before it was absolutely necessary, but if he could guide Sherlock towards remembering one key detail, he could ensure his brother believed the faulty story he was currently telling. Sherlock’s remembered detail would seem to legitimize the preceding events, and thus he would not think to question their validity.

Sherlock came upon his answer all at once, and fell against the back of the chair.

“We didn’t find him,” he said, as if the details were close at hand. “He was locked away somewhere, and I never saw him again.”

“Shit,” John breathed after a moment, dropping forward to clutch his hands on the back of a spare chair. 

Mycroft sighed once more. 

“Well,” Sherlock said with an over-exaggerated lifting of his eyebrows before jumping from the chair and stepping into the living room. “Mystery solved.”

He settled himself into his armchair, pulling out his mobile and beginning to type away. Mycroft and John shared a look. 

“Sherlock?” John asked, hesitant. “Are you okay, then?”

“Perfectly,” Sherlock said, smirking up at John for a moment before dropping the grin, putting on the act of nonchalance.

“Because it’s alright if...if you’re not. That couldn’t have been easy to deal, especially for a child.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock said. “I was a child, John. It’s long past.”

The days following Victor’s disappearance had been some of the darkest of Mycroft’s young life, certainly the darkest of young Sherlock’s. There were nightmares and tearful breakdowns and, when it became clear Victor was not coming back, a span of weeks where Sherlock did not speak or sleep and had to be forced to eat. Even if Sherlock had not yet come to realize that Redbeard was no more a dog than Eurus was a neighbor girl, the residual darkness would be hard to escape. 

Mycroft’s impulse was to stay and keep an eye on Sherlock, particularly given the fact that the consulting detective was clearly refusing to acknowledge any residual pain the memory had brought up. But he needed to act in accordance with the story as it stood. A dead dog stolen away and potentially harmed by a neighbor child was distressing, certainly, but not any particular cause for extended alarm to the extent Mycroft would have felt had the truth about Eurus been revealed. 

“I apologize it had to be brought to light,” he said, standing from the kitchen table. “But it couldn’t be helped, unfortunately.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, not bothering to look up from his mobile, fingers typing quickly. 

John followed Mycroft as he found his coat.

“You’re going?” he asked. “After all that?”

Mycroft spoke loud enough to ensure that Sherlock heard.

“It all happened quite long ago, Dr. Watson. No need to over-dramatize now that it’s out in the open.”

There was a shift in Sherlock’s body language, and Mycroft could not help but feel a pang of remorse that he was abandoning his brother and his not-so-skillfully masked pain. But it was the best way to ensure Sherlock accepted the story as-is, and his best chance at keeping him distracted, at keeping him from delving further into memory. 

He pulled his umbrella from the stand.

“Sherlock,” he said, nodding goodbye to the man across the room. “John.” 

It was only once he was out of 221b that Mycroft allowed himself to drop the facade of nonchalance. Even then, he worried that his brother may notice his walk away through the window, so he allowed himself only a small moment of mourning for the particular piece of innocence he feared was lost from Sherlock forever, straightened his cuffs, opened his umbrella against the light drizzle, and stepped away with his shoulders held back. 

It was for Sherlock’s own good. He just hoped he’d done enough to contain the looming disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visit me on [tumblr](https://little-brothers-mine.tumblr.com/) (new ficlet "Brother Knows Best" was uploaded recently).


	17. Avoidance Tactics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of your lovely feedback on the last chapter, loves! You're all the best for sticking with me and providing interesting insights into the plot lines I'm working with. We're back to a bit of ageplay in this chapter, and more is to come as we navigate the implications of Mycroft's choices and the haunting of Sherlock's past. 
> 
> In regards to Mycroft's lies and Sherlock's lack of memory, I'm letting the series influence the writing--in TFP, Mycroft does not speak of Eurus until he is caught in the omission of truth by Sherlock and John ("someone convinced him that you wouldn't tell the truth unless you were actually wetting yourself"), and even in the telling of the backstory, he leaves out mention of Victor and perpetuates the myth that Redbeard is a dog (it is only Eurus who guides Sherlock to that remembrance). Sherlock's forgetfulness when it comes to his sister/Victor is canon; I'm just exploring what it might look like if there was the potential for the secret to come out before it was absolutely necessary for it to be told. I'm not setting out to change the events of the series within my writing, just to play around with the implications of them a bit. All of that is to say: don't expect to see any sudden remembrances about Eurus--things will stay hidden for now :) 
> 
> This chapter was an interesting challenge, as I wanted to explore the impact the events of the previous few chapters had on both Sherlock and Mycroft in alternating perspectives. Hopefully it worked out! 
> 
> I'm sending you all hugs and positive vibes and, as always, bunny kisses!

John went about his day with one eye trained on Sherlock. The consulting detective had not moved from his spot curled in his armchair since Mycroft had left. He vacillated between bursts of activity whereby he typed furiously on his mobile and muttered to himself over what he felt to be idiotic suggestions from imbecilic simpletons and long stretches of time when he sat, still and silent, staring off into the distance. John had let him be, not feeling it was his place to question Sherlock's actions unless they became injurious in some way; he wasn’t exactly an expert at coping mechanisms, himself, as Mycroft had so underhandedly pointed out that morning. 

“Alright, then?” John asked, from his place between kitchen and living room around half three. 

He’d been doing the washing up they’d left sitting in the sink from breakfast, needing to occupy his mind and his hands. 

Sherlock did not respond, either not having registered John’s question or deliberately choosing to ignore him. He was draped in the chair, legs thrown over one arm and head tilted back against the other, staring up at his mobile and twitching a foot restlessly.

The story of Sherlock’s childhood dog was weighing heavy on John’s mind as he contemplated the sense of loss and injustice which would have needed to be processed by Sherlock at such a young age. But there was something more, something which didn't quite compute regarding Mycroft's story of the conniving neighbor girl. He couldn't exactly place it, but it seemed Sherlock was caught between attempting to recall more details and attempting to distract himself from doing so. If that was the case, Mycroft had not been entirely truthful that morning, and Sherlock knew it. 

John's role in bringing such memories and potentially harmful ploys to fruition caused a low burn of guilt in his gut, and he sighed, regretting that he did not have the words to address Sherlock’s methods of avoidance or the clear-cut evidence to suggest to the man that Mycroft had not told them all that he knew.

“Idiotic woman,” Sherlock muttered to himself, his phone's touchscreen keyboard clicking. “Clearly the butcher’s son doesn’t have the resources or wherewithal to be carrying on an operation of that sort!” 

He typed furiously, only stopping for short moments while his eyes scanned the forums. He’d been manic for nearly the entirety of the last hour and a half, insisting every ten minutes that John check the blog and newspapers for potential cases, suggesting some rather nasty words be sent to Lestrade when he replied to John’s texts that there was nothing pressing at Scotland Yard.

“Sherlock?” John tried once more, drying his hands on the dishcloth, “Lunch?”

Sherlock grunted in what may have been an acknowledgement of John’s question but was likely only a tactic meant to get John to leave him alone.

“Stupid man!” he yelled. 

John turned back over his shoulder with eyebrows raised, but Sherlock was rolling his eyes towards the screen, unconscious of John’s attention. 

“It was obviously never sold!” Sherlock said to the mobile. “Opportunistic brother-in-law taking advantage of his sister’s predisposition for half-witted men.” 

It was painful to watch Sherlock attempting to distract himself from acknowledging the conversation of that morning. What was worse, John knew from experience that Sherlock could not continue in the way he was for much longer; he would soon tire of insulting strangers on the internet and begin searching for more dangerous distractions. John needed to intervene if he were to keep Sherlock safe and his actions contained. 

It was in both Sherlock’s and John’s best interest that Sherlock age down. John wanted Sherlock to gain a moment of peace, and he himself longed to settle the waves of guilt resonating within him. He wanted nothing more than to be a positive, comforting force of support for the man after playing a rather significant--albeit mainly unconscious--role in causing him pain. It had been quite a while since John had felt his caretaker instincts settling in, but, at the moment, the impulse was strong.

He opened the fridge to find bread and cheese and set a pan to warm on the stove. If he were going to get Sherlock to eat something, it would need to be simple. And if somewhere in the back of his mind John hoped a lunch of grilled cheese and tomato soup may prompt Sherlock to rest his racing brain by shifting into headspace, so be it. 

“Lunch, Sherlock,” John called, placing a plate of grilled cheese--crusts trimmed--next to a bowl of tomato soup at Sherlock’s spot at the table.

Sherlock glanced up from his mobile with a huff.

“Not hungry,” he mumbled. “The idiocy of humanity has turned me off food forever.”

“It’s lunchtime, Sherlock,” John said, voice firm. “Put away your mobile and come sit.” 

John, for one, had had enough of secrecy and potentially underhanded actions for one day, and, quite frankly, he did not have the energy to lead Sherlock gradually to the idea of aging down. Sherlock had taken control when they’d woken up that morning, deducing what John needed and how; it was John’s turn to repay the favor. He waited until Sherlock was watching skeptically, then opened the cabinet and took a dinosaur sippy cup from the shelf. He unscrewed the top and placed it on the table.

“Milk or juice?” John asked over his shoulder, one hand on the door of the fridge. 

Sherlock blinked up at him, mobile suddenly forgotten.

“John, I--”

“--Milk, or juice? Or would you like me to choose for you?”

He watched the man as he took in the table as it was laid out, as his eyes scanned the red and yellow sippy cup. He could see Sherlock calculating his options, deducing John’s reactions to each differing response-scenario he was currently playing out in his mind. 

Whether Sherlock understood just how close he was to the edge, sensed that John was as emotionally spent as he was, or simply welcomed a bit of coddling as long as John didn’t name it out loud, John didn’t know. Whatever the reason, Sherlock let his phone drop onto the carpet as he unfurled himself from the chair. He wrapped his dressing gown around himself and shuffled into the kitchen to take a seat. 

“Juice,” he said as John placed a child-sized spoon beside his bowl and told him to blow on the soup so as not to burn his tongue. 

John filled the sippy cup halfway with apple juice, then diluted it with water and screwed the top back on before placing the cup before Sherlock. The man reached for it and drank greedily from the spout.

“Good?” John asked, sitting beside Sherlock and starting in on his own halved grilled cheese.

Sherlock nodded, pulling the cup away from his lips and reaching for his spoon. It was a bit of a challenge to get Sherlock to eat more than three bites of his grilled cheese, but he ate all of his soup and half of John’s when it was offered to him, so John didn’t push. Food was hard for Sherlock at times, and that was okay. 

“Good,” John said when Sherlock slurped the last of the soup from John’s bowl, and Sherlock--not nearly young enough to put up with John’s praise--rolled his eyes, squirming in his seat. 

It was a relief that some of the tension had left Sherlock’s neck and shoulders over the course of the meal, but as John stood to clear the dishes, he could sense that the man’s now unoccupied mind was racing once more. Sherlock was playing along with John’s current whim, acknowledging the roles they sometimes shifted into. But he was still more adult than anything, and clearly a bit unmoored. John needed to give him direction, reassurances that he would not be left to his own devices, if he wanted to help the man settle down in age.

“Sherlock,” John said, turning from the sink and waiting until Sherlock’s wandering eyes met his. “What do you say you pick out a puzzle and get it set up in the living room while I tidy up a bit?”

Sherlock nodded, pushing himself from the table he had been picking at with his fingernail and moving towards the hall closet. By the time John joined him in the living room, he’d pushed his armchair back against the wall and was lying on his stomach in front of the fireplace, puzzle pieces strewn before him.

“Periodic table _and_ London tube system?” John asked, recognizing two empty boxes and a pile of mixed puzzle pieces on the carpet.

Sherlock nodded, swirling a hand in the pile to mix the two puzzles and then setting to work separating the combined pieces by color, atomic number, or station name: periodic table to one side, tube stations to the other. He was attempting to occupy his mind, and John wanted nothing more than to help him along. 

“Clever, that,” John said when Sherlock had quickly assembled nearly all of the purple-colored noble gases on his right and half the Jubilee line on his left. 

Sherlock hummed noncommittally and continued sorting through pieces, making quick work of the puzzles despite the challenge he had given himself by combining the two. 

John took a seat in his chair in order to watch over Sherlock as he worked at his feel. The man enjoyed the keen attention of an audience; it had been, roughly speaking, John's initial purpose. 

He knew the man was still struggling against the fast-paced jolts of his adult mind, knew that Sherlock was no more child than John at the moment. But Sherlock was allowing himself the ritual, and, if they were lucky, that might just be enough.

\----

When Mycroft texted that the crisis at Baker Street had been averted and that he was headed into the office to handle a few issues which needed his attention, Greg couldn’t help but feel as sense of relief. However, the Detective Inspector was eager to gain more information, particularly after receiving John’s texts asking if there were any cases which could do with a consultation from Sherlock. It didn’t exactly take detective work to understand that the morning's events had more than likely unsettled Sherlock and ensured the man was in desperate need of distraction. 

Luckily, apart from the issue he’d been called in for--questioning from the Complaints Commission regarding one of his officer’s mishandling of an interrogation--and a rather large stack of paperwork, it had been a slow day. He hadn’t needed to choose between his role as Papa and that of Detective Inspector, and had simply told John the truth: that there was nothing pressing on at the moment. 

Despite the lack of pressing cases, Lestrade found himself wrapped up in minutiae which kept him busy at the station for far longer than he’d hoped. His thoughts continuously drifted to Mycroft. The man had texted rather than called, and Mycroft only texted when he was unable or unwilling to chat. It seemed clear Sherlock was not the only Holmes brothers using avoidance tactics to ignore his misgivings about the events of the day. The childhood memory was not Sherlock's trauma alone. 

By the time he was able to call off the barrage of requests from his sergeants and officers and finish up the backlog of paperwork which had built over the course of the past month, it was nearing dinnertime, and he was anxious to check in on Mycroft, not to mention Sherlock and John. 

He considered calling John as he hailed a cab and directed it to the government building where he assumed Mycroft would still be hunched over his work in his dark office, anticipating that John would be best able to report on Sherlock’s current state of mind. But he was sorely lacking in details from the morning’s conversation, and he didn’t want to risk upsetting Mycroft or the boys by mistakenly saying something he shouldn’t. He would talk with Mycroft, and hopefully convince him to accompany him to Baker Street, where they would ensure their little ones were alright. However adult they may be at any given time, Greg had begun to find it difficult not to see Sherlock and John as they were when they were small: innocent and vulnerable. 

It was a surprise to find out from the staff that Mycroft was not at the office but had left for home some time earlier. Greg found a new cab and gave him the address for Mycroft’s flat, picking up his mobile with the intent of calling, but ultimately deciding against it. It was clear Mycroft had shut himself away; he didn’t want to give him an opportunity to deny his company even before he’d arrived. 

\----

John could see Sherlock was getting restless after he’d completed his fourth puzzle in half as many hours. He’d been reading in his chair, glancing up to pass along some words of encouragement to his slightly regressing boyfriend from time to time, but a mind such as Sherlock’s needed new and varied stimulation; jigsaw puzzles could only occupy him for so long.

“What do you say we watch a bit of telly when you’ve finished?” John asked, wanting to settle Sherlock’s burgeoning anxiety by not allowing him time to question what came next. 

John checked the time and got out of his chair to crouch down beside Sherlock, careful to step around the nearly completed puzzle of the world map. It was past dinnertime, and John hoped he could get Sherlock to eat something before it got too late.

“Does that sound alright, love?”

Sherlock was placing a piece and then glancing around himself, skirting his fingers along the carpet. He looked distraught as he bent to peer beneath John’s armchair, then spun on his knees to turn up the edge of the rug. John took in the man’s actions with a bit of confusion, yet registered with a bit of a smile that Sherlock’s actions were less calculated--more childlike--than an hour before.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" he asked as Sherlock scrambled around.

Sherlock only grunted and held out an open palm towards the world map puzzle, which was complete except for one piece near the upper left corner. Sherlock was searching for the last piece of the puzzle, the final cardboard bit that would make the picture whole.

“Ah, alright. Let’s see if we can’t find it,” John said, standing to gain a better vantage point for searching.

But Sherlock had given up looking. He growled in the back of his throat and began reaching forward to pull apart the puzzle he’d nearly completed, suddenly angry. 

"It's not here," he said, jaw tense and eyebrows furrowed. "It's nowhere." 

And then he was yelling, grasping at the puzzle before John could stop him from destroying the work he'd done. He threw handfuls of puzzle pieces across the room, tearing pieces from where they had, moments before, sat snugly, interlocked in an organized pattern.

“Hey, hey,” John said, reaching forward to pull Sherlock’s arms down towards his body before he could destroy the other puzzles he'd completed as well. “That's enough, love. Calm down.” 

Sherlock thrashed against John’s body and stood up to pull himself out of the smaller man’s tight embrace. He kicked out at a clump of pieces and continued to yell.

"It's a stupid puzzle! I hate it!" 

John knew it was useless to attempt to restrain Sherlock at the moment. All he could do was watch and ensure the man didn't harm himself. Sherlock kicked or pulled apart each puzzle in turn, growling and muttering to himself about lost pieces and ruined pictures. When the puzzles were nothing more than scattered pieces strewn about on the floor, he lost some of the fight, and slumped onto the carpet, dropping his head into his hands. He began to cry. 

"It's alright,” John said, voice even and insistent as he crouched behind the man and placed a hand on the back of his head. “You’re okay. It’s going to be okay.” 

“I couldn’t find Redbeard,” Sherlock mumbled, and, for a moment, John was unsure if he was adult or little. “I looked and looked, but I couldn’t find him.”

Here were Sherlock's real concerns on display, the thoughts and worries he'd been fighting against all day. When Sherlock reached to wipe the tears from his face, puzzle pieces were stuck to his palms. 

“None of that, now,” John said, soothing Sherlock by running a hand through the curls on the back of his head. “You did all you could. No one is cleverer than you.”

Sherlock’s face fell when he looked up at John. 

“I wasn’t clever enough,” he said, voice little more than a sniffling whisper. “I wasn’t clever and I couldn’t find him.”

“Come here, love,” John said, shifting his hand up to the nape of Sherlock’s neck and pulling him close. “I’ve got you.”

He pressed his back against the base of his chair in order to have greater support as he cradled Sherlock to his chest, muttering soothing phrases into his ear. The boy cried into his sweater, soft and pitiful, mumbling about Redbeard and riddles and nightmares at Musgrave while John rocked him back and forth, arms wrapped tight around his body.

“It was my fault,” Sherlock said when his tears had at last been reduced to sniffles. “It’s my fault we never found him.”

John could not stand to see Sherlock quite so undone.

“That’s enough, now,” he said, taking a breath and shifting to lift Sherlock’s head towards him, hands on either side of the man’s face. “None of that was your fault. You didn’t take him away, did you? Didn’t lock him up?”

Sherlock shook his head as John wiped tears from his cheeks with his thumbs. 

“You see?” he said. “None of it was your fault, sweet boy.” 

“He must have been so scared,” Sherlock said, dissolving into tears once more. “He was all alone.”

“Shush,” John said, pulling the boy’s head to his shoulder. “It’s all over, now. I’m here.” 

\----

Greg found Mycroft sitting in the office at his flat, the room dark and a glass of bourbon in his hand. Greg had taken a seat in the chair on the other side of the desk, denying Mycroft’s insistence that he be left in solitude. There were cigarette butts crushed into the ashtray. It was obvious the man had been unmoored by the telling of the events of the Holmes brothers’ past, preoccupied with concern for his brother. Greg had no intention of leaving him to his own devices.

“He’ll realize what you’ve left out, eventually,” Greg said after sitting in silence while Mycroft relayed the events of that morning. 

“I don’t doubt that he will,” Mycroft said, voice dripping with the superiority that often accompanied his greatest shows of defensiveness. “And when that time comes, Sherlock will know the truth. But that time is not today. I’ve borne this for him for many years, and I’ll continue to bear it as long as possible.”

“It’s not best to come out with it all?” Greg asked, skeptical. “Be upfront? He’s not actually a child, anymore, Mycroft.”

Mycroft raised his chin and peered down at him as if they were strangers. He was withdrawn and short in a way he had not behaved towards Greg since their earliest interactions. Sherlock would always come first; Greg had long since learned that. But Mycroft truly seemed to believe that allowing himself to acknowledge any sentiment surrounding his relationship with Greg in times of crisis would cloud his instinctive judgment, and that, to Greg, was disappointing. 

“My brother has a habit of professing himself immune to emotional resonance,” Mycroft said, folding his hands on the desk in front of him. “In reality, his proclamations of sociopathy are nothing more than carefully crafted walls of a facade set in place for self-preservation.”

“Right,” Greg said, lost in Mycroft’s tangled web of thought. He ran a hand down his face in exasperation. “Meaning...?” 

Mycroft hoisted himself from the chair with a sigh and crossed to the window, glass of bourbon in hand.

“My little brother has always been a far more fragile being than he’s ever cared to admit.”

Greg scoffed, a bit taken aback by the weight in Mycroft’s voice. Everyone had family members they’d rather not remember, memories wrought with pain and suffering. It didn’t mean a lifetime of deep, dark secrets must be maintained. 

“You can’t honestly be saying you don’t think Sherlock can handle knowing the truth?”

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder towards Greg and raised an eyebrow before speaking.

“That is precisely what I’m saying,” he said. “Besides, I can’t risk him...interfering.”

Greg sighed. 

“There’s more to this than you’re letting on,” he said, wishing Mycroft would realize he wouldn’t jeopardize his brother’s well-being were he to place his full trust in Greg.

“There’s always more,” Mycroft said, “where family is concerned.”

“At least tell him about the boy,” Greg said. “His friend. Leave out your sister if you really think it’s for his own good, but don’t let him go on thinking all he lost was a dog.”

Mycroft drummed his fingers against the edge of his rocks glass. Greg got out of his chair and crossed to the man, stepping close and wrapping an arm around his waist from behind. He was no longer able to ignore the worry--perhaps the fear--hidden behind Mycroft’s eyes. 

“That level of loss sticks with you,” Greg continued, recalling cases steeped in sorrow that he’d covered throughout his career. “He’ll realize there’s more to his remembered pain than a lost pet.” 

Mycroft allowed himself to fall back against Greg’s solid strength for a welcomed moment, then pulled away and crossing back towards his desk.

"I won't," he said. "No good can come of it."

He glanced at Greg then leaned forward to press his hands flat against his desk. 

“I...wasn’t there for him before,” Mycroft admitted. “At least not in the way I should have been. I was...distracted, aloof. I won’t be the one to cause him a repeat of that upset.” 

Greg sighed as Mycroft lifted his rocks glass. 

“Alright, love,” he said, because it was suddenly clear that Mycroft was not only struggling to protect Sherlock, but struggling to somehow make up for actions he had not taken in childhood, struggling to overcome his residual guilt. 

Greg crossed to Mycroft once more, and this time the man sighed as he allowed himself to be pulled back against Greg’s chest, allowed Greg’s arms to tighten around him and Greg’s chin to rest on his shoulder as he came up behind him.

“Let’s at least pop over to check on them?” Greg asked. “Make sure they’re okay?”

“Yes,” Mycroft nodded, tipping the final dregs of bourbon back. “Let’s.”

\---- 

It was half an hour before John had settled Sherlock enough to be able to coax him to stand and allow himself to be led down the hall for what John hoped would be a calming bath. The man’s tears had abated, but he continued to glance off into the distance as if the events of his childhood were playing on a screen just behind John’s shoulder, distracted and upset. He continued to mumble to himself as he was bathed, telling half-comprehensible details from a time once believed forgotten. 

He was pliable as John helped him out of the tub, dressed him in pajamas, and brushed his wet hair away from his face. 

“We played pirates,” Sherlock mumbled, eyes lidded as John passed him his toothbrush and reached around his shoulders to squeeze toothpaste onto the bristles.

John waited for Sherlock to brush his teeth and spit the toothpaste into the sink. 

“Who played pirates, love?” John asked.

“Me and Redbeard,” Sherlock said. 

Sherlock glanced down at the tiles of the bathroom floor for a moment, pulling at his bottom lip with one hand. When he shifted his gaze to John, there were tears in his eyes once more, and the boy was far too exhausted to do anything but let them spill onto his cheeks.

“Redbeard was a dog, love,” John said, tipping his head towards Sherlock and smiling at him in an attempt to comfort. “Just a lovely dog.”

Sherlock blinked up at him and wiped his tears eyes with the back of his hands before leaning forward to press his face into John’s sweater.

“I can’t remember, John,” he mumbled. “There’s something more but I can’t remember.”

John attempted to steel his facial expressions against any visible signs of concern. Here was his worry actualized: additional pieces of information Mycroft had likely hoped to keep concealed that may come to light in Sherlock's memory.

But John could not waste energy deducing what may or may not be true. He had a sleepy boy to take care of, one who had earned himself a great many more bedtime stories than was reasonable. 


	18. In Daddy and Papa's Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loves!
> 
> You've all been so patient while we've dealt with the drama of the past few chapters. Enjoy our cute and fluffy return to ageplay, and let me know if you have any requests :)
> 
> It's been a very rough few days for me, but things are thankfully looking up. Hope the world right now is bright and positive for all of you, as well! Thanks again for your continued support--your comments and kudos really do mean so, so much <3

Greg and Mycroft arrived at Baker Street, Greg’s duffel slung across his chest. Quarters were tight at John and Sherlock’s flat, but it was unlikely, given the late hour, that they would be able to get the boys back to Mycroft’s flat without causing additional stress or facing arguments. 

“Wait,” Mycroft said when Greg reached to ring the doorbell.

He nodded his chin towards the windows of the second floor, which were dim; the living room lights were not lit. 

“Let’s not disturb them if they’re asleep,” he said, and Greg stepped away from the door as Mycroft took out his key.

The flat was quiet. They stepped gently up the staircase and peeked into the living room. Given the state of the apartment--puzzle pieces strewn about the carpet, a bath towel left tossed over the back of a kitchen chair, the boys were certainly in, and at least one of them was little. 

“Good thing we decided to check up on them,” Greg said, voice low as he placed his bag on John’s armchair and took in the messy room. “They know better than to keep themselves isolated when they’re young.”

“Only one of them is young,” Mycroft said from down the hallway, exiting the bathroom in his sweep of the apartment. “They wouldn’t voluntarily have gotten into the bath if they were both small.”

They found John and Sherlock asleep in Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock’s head was on John’s shoulder and John’s thumb was tucked into his mouth. Although they certainly both looked young at the moment, it was likely only Sherlock had been young when they’d gone to bed: while Sherlock was dressed in a ragged pair of dinosaur pajamas--a too-small pair that were some of the first items of clothing Mycroft had purchased when he’d begun ageplay with a barely nineteen-year-old Sherlock--John was still dressed in his jeans and sweater.

“Should we change the baby into something more comfortable?” Greg whispered, but Mycroft shook his head.

“Let him sleep, for now. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a rather trying evening.” 

They left the door slightly open to let in a thin streak of light from the hallway, then retreated back to the living room, where they took residence on the couch. Greg draped an arm around Mycroft’s shoulders, and the man allowed himself to shift close until his back was pressed against Greg’s chest.

Although Mycroft felt justified in placing himself at Baker Street to care for the boys, he had not exactly left on the best terms earlier that morning. He was fairly certain that, had they arrived to find the boys adult, there would have been tension, perhaps accusations. It had been necessary to leave them when he had, necessary to withhold the truth, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t worried about Sherlock--and, by extension, John--throughout the entirety of the day. 

He recalled the incident with Eurus and Victor Trevor as infrequently as possible. However, when he did call the details to mind, they came clear and strong, as if no time had passed at all. His parents had been concerned about Victor’s disappearance, of course; every family in the vicinity had done their fair share of worrying and keeping their kids closer in the days after learning the Trevors were missing their son. They had been frantic over the thought that Eurus may actually know where Victor had gone off to, begging her to explain and begging Mycroft to talk sense into her if he could. 

But Mycroft had been surly and aloof and loathe to involve himself in the family drama at the time, insisting on burying himself in his books. The drama belonged to Eurus and Sherlock and Sherlock’s little friend, and was thus too childish for Mycroft to take much interest. It was not until Eurus’s sing-song rhyme had become the background of their lives for a very trying week, and then, not long after, she set the fire that sent her away, that Mycroft realized he may have been too flippant about the entire ordeal, too quick to assure himself there were others dealing with the problem, too self-involved and cold. 

And, as Mycroft comforted Sherlock late at night, as the boy’s pain threatened to consume them both, he began to regret not taking more of an active role in attempting to decipher his little sister’s rhyme. Eurus had rather strange mannerisms, yes, but even Mycroft hadn’t assumed she was truly responsible for Victor Trevor’s disappearance. He should have placed more stock in Sherlock’s worry. He should have tried harder to find Sherlock’s best friend. 

Now the entire ordeal was in danger of being brought to light, and Mycroft was unsure Sherlock was prepared to go through the stress of it all a second time. 

“You’re protecting him,” Greg said, obviously sensing Mycroft’s unease and remembering the conversation they’d had back at his flat.

Greg ran a hand up and down Mycroft’s arm.

“The demons of our past,” Mycroft said with a sigh as he reached to loosen his tie and open his top button.

Greg leaned over and pressed his lips to the man’s temple.

Despite his police-officer toughness, Greg had brought a gentleness to Mycroft’s life that he had never felt before. Here was comfort and understanding, a space within which to show another human being his true self. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Mycroft said. “And not just because of the boys.”

Greg pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around his body. 

“Love you, too,” he whispered, and Mycroft could feel Greg smirking where his face was tucked against his ear.

They settled into a comfortable silence, both men entertaining the idea of helping the other to the bed upstairs in John’s room and both ultimately deciding they were too comfortable to move. Mycroft was soon dozing against Greg, the lack of sleep from the night before as well as the bourbon he’d consumed before leaving his flat combining to settle him into a content drowsiness. Greg had toed off his shoes and kicked his feet up onto the coffee table before them, a solid, steady weight behind Mycroft. 

They were pulled from their sleepy stupor by a clatter of something falling to the floor and then a mumbling, frantic voice as Sherlock’s bedroom door was pulled open. Mycroft and Greg were up off of the couch in a moment. They made their way to the hallway just in time to see John hurry into the bathroom and close the door behind him. 

They shared a look of surprise before Mycroft stepped farther down the hallway to peer into Sherlock’s room. The boy was still asleep, cuddling his plush dinosaur. Mycroft pulled the bedroom door closed to keep the carried noise of John’s concerned mumblings from waking his brother.

“No, stop, no,” John was chanting from behind the doorway, “no, no, no.” 

“John?” Greg was asking from his place just outside the closed bathroom door. 

“Everything alright?” Mycroft called, leaning towards the doorway.

If John was surprised to find Greg and Mycroft in the flat, he didn’t let on. 

“Ah, I...I’m fine!” he called, and then, when Greg reached to turn the door handle: “Don’t come in!” 

Mycroft could not help but smile at Greg, who was looking at him just as knowingly. John’s voice was young and nervous. If there had been any question regarding John’s state of mind when they’d arrived at Baker Street, it had now been answered. 

“Bunny, can Daddy come in for a minute?” Mycroft asked. 

And then it was not a question of waiting for permission, because there were sniffles and tears sounding from within the bathroom. Greg sighed as Mycroft turned towards him once more; it was not hard to ascertain what had happened. 

“I’m coming in, princess,” Mycroft said before pushing into the bathroom, glad that, in the boy’s haste, he had not had time to lock the door behind him. 

Their little Bunny was hunched in the middle of the bathroom, tears streaming down his face. His jeans were dark with wetness down both legs. The boy held a hand to his crotch and turned away in an attempt to hide his accident, but there was no concealing what had happened. He looked rather pitiful, soaked down to his socks and standing in a puddle of urine as he cried. 

“I didn’t mean to!” he said, snivelling, the moment Mycroft opened the door. 

“I know, honey bun,” Mycroft said, reaching forward to cup a hand around Bunny’s cheek. “I know.”

Despite the boy’s distress, it was comforting to find John aged down, and Mycroft ran his thumb over the boy’s flushed cheek to wipe at his tears. Bunny turned to glance up at him, eyes glossy and lower lip trembling. 

“I’m supposed to be big,” he said before breaking down once more. 

Mycroft gathered the crying boy into his arms--wet clothes be damned--and cradled him to his chest as Greg stepped forward and rubbed his back. The boy was still speaking, and they had to strain to understand him over his hitching sobs. 

“Sherlock n-needed me to be b-big,” Bunny was saying. “But--but I couldn’t s-sleep, and I--then I felt so l-little and--but I wasn’t supposed t-to!”

“Shush, now,” Mycroft said, rocking the boy back and forth and catching Greg’s sympathetic eye over the top of Bunny’s head. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” 

“I d-didn’t wanna wet my p-pants,” the boy sobbed, burying his face into Mycroft’s shoulder. “I w-was b-big but I woke up and--and felt s-small and h-had to go so b-bad.” 

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Mycroft soothed. “You’ve had a hard day.”

“Just an accident, kiddo,” Greg told him, voice as bright as always. “Nothing we can’t fix up.” 

Bunny had brought his thumb to his mouth, but he continued to sob. Mycroft knew the boy was likely crying for more than just his wet pants. John had stepped up to care for Sherlock without question, obviously suppressing his own needs in order to do so. Another pang of guilt caught at the base of Mycroft’s throat; he’d known in the back of his mind that he’d been leaving John to clean up his mess after the conversation that morning. 

He cradled Bunny while Greg stood close and stroked the back of the boy’s head, both men mumbling soft reassurances to their distraught kid. 

“Papa? Mycroft?” 

They glanced to the doorway to find Sherlock standing in his undersized pajamas, clutching Dimitri the dinosaur beneath one arm and knuckling at his eyes. 

“Hey, buddy,” Mycroft said, and John pressed his face harder against Mycroft’s shoulder, either embarrassed or still feeling as if he’d let Sherlock down--likely both. “Everything okay?”

Sherlock shook his head and pulled the pacifier from his mouth.

“Bad dream,” he said, and his face became pinched, as if he were remembering it once more and in danger of dissolving into tears. “I couldn’t find Redbeard.” 

“Aw, none of that, now,” Greg said, stepping forward to heft Sherlock into his arms. 

Sherlock was more difficult to lift than Bunny. Mycroft had learned the tricks to navigating the man’s long limbs over the years, but it had taken a bit of trial and error on Greg’s. Lately, however, the man seemed to have gotten used to shifting Sherlock up onto his hip in just the right way, and the boy was accommodating enough to anyone willing to carry him that he made the task as easy as possible, latching his legs around Greg’s waist and looping his arms about his neck.

Sherlock settled almost the moment he was in Greg’s arms. Distress still played around the corners of his eyes, but he was, miraculously, no longer in danger of tears. Greg took the pacifier from the boy’s hand and, after Sherlock made his way through a rather gaping yawn, offered it to the boy, who took it into his mouth eagerly.

“What happened to the baby?” he asked with a concerned glance towards John. “Did he have a bad dream, too?”

Sherlock’s question set John to crying once more, and Mycroft held him close with a cluck of his tongue, resuming the back and forth swaying that had seemed to soothe the boy moments before. 

“He’s okay, little pirate,” Greg said. “Mycroft’s going to take care of him while I get you back to bed, alright?” 

Luckily, Sherlock did not argue, yawning once more and nodding as he reached absent-mindedly to fiddle with Greg’s shirt collar. Greg smirked at Mycroft before carrying his boyfriend’s little brother out of the bathroom, leaving Mycroft alone with John. 

Mycroft placed the boy to sit on the counter of the sink cabinet and, after wetting a washcloth, reached to wipe the tears from his face.

“Alright, ladybug?” Mycroft asked, free hand resting on John’s knee.

Bunny had begun to use the backs of his hands to wipe at his own wet eyes, squirming away from the wash cloth, and he nodded. 

“I’m a boy right now, Daddy,” he said, sniffling.

Mycroft glanced down at his kid with what, for Mycroft, qualified as over-exaggerated shock. 

 

“You mean to tell me you can’t be my ladybug when you’re a boy?” he asked, teasing.

Mycroft reached forward to tickle John at the base of his neck beneath his left ear. The boy squirmed where he sat, giggling as he involuntarily pressed his ear to his shoulder in an attempt to escape Mycroft’s wandering fingers. 

“No, Daddy,” he said, laughing, scrabbling his hands against Mycroft’s shirt as he tried to escape the man’s tickling. “But I’m a boy ladybug.” 

“Ah, I see,” Mycroft said, pleased to see the boy a bit lighter in his mood as he stopped his tickling and brushed the hair back from Bunny's face. “Well, Mr. ladybug, it’s way past your bedtime. Let’s get you into the tub, okay?” 

The boy seemed all too relieved to be lifted from the sink cabinet, peeled out of his soiled clothing, and helped into the warm bath. Mycroft rolled up his shirtsleeves and made quick work of washing the lad, paying careful attention to his inner thighs and genitals in order to ensure he was as clean as possible after his little potty accident. 

“Daddy?” Bunny asked, running his fingers through the soapy water. “Can I still be a princess, even when I feel like a boy?” 

Mycroft smiled at the Bunny and signaled for him to close his eyes and tip back his head so he could rinse his hair. He let Bunny squeeze a bit of shampoo into the palm of Mycroft’s hand before he spoke. 

“Of course, baby,” he said, massaging shampoo into the boy’s scalp. “You’ll always be Papa and Daddy’s princess. Whether you’re feeling like a boy or a girl.”

Mycroft paused in the process of washing the boy’s hair. He did not want to upset the boy, but there were questions he felt it necessary to ask, points he needed to reassure for Bunny’s sense of self. He dropped his hands to the lip of the tub, causing Bunny to glance up from playing with his glittery plastic mermaids. Mycroft was relieved that, even when young, John could sense when the mood had shifted. He looked up at Mycroft in anticipation, knowing his Daddy wanted to talk about something important. 

“Bun, are you feeling like a boy right now because you think Sherlock would feel sad if you were a girl?” 

The boy shrugged, then seemed to get uncomfortable and turned back to shove his mermaids down under the water. He pushed them down and watched them pop up to the surface, then pushed them down once more. Mycroft remained patient, waiting for the boy to explain himself.

“The mean girl took Sherlock’s doggie,” Bunny whispered down towards the bathwater. 

“That’s right, baby,” Mycroft said, nodding. He reached out and held Bunny’s wrist gently, stopping him from fiddling with the toys. “But you’re not that mean girl, are you?”

Mycroft knew there were more differences between Eurus Holmes and John Watson than perhaps between any other two people Mycroft had come to associate with. But Bunny glanced up at Mycroft as if it were the first time he had thought of the distinction. He looked relieved, a bit more sure of himself, when he shook his head.

“I’m a nice girl, Daddy,” he said, as if he were testing out the persona. 

“That’s right, Bun,” Mycroft smiled. “We all have scary things that have happened to us in the past. But what happened to Sherlock was not your fault, and I’m sure Sherlock is going to be happy to have you as a little sister.”

The words were not easy for Mycroft to say. As much as he knew the dangers of Eurus, the idea of replacing her, the strain of having had to obliterate her from his associations with Sherlock, was trying. He was not a man preoccupied with outwards shows of affection, but, somewhere, he did still care for Eurus. Somewhere, he mourned the loss of their siblinghood. 

Mycroft cleared his throat and turned his attention back to John, placing aside the grim images of Eurus locked in her sparse cell at Sherringford. 

“Daddy and Papa want you to be a girl whenever you feel like a girl,” Mycroft said, brightening his voice with a conscious effort. “Okay?”

Bunny smiled genuinely for only the second time that night. 

“Okay, Daddy,” he said, reaching once more for his beloved mermaids. “But I’m a boy right now, okay?”

Mycroft chuckled at the boy’s staunch efforts at clarification and reached forward to continue lathering the shampoo in his hair.

“Okay, my little mermaid,” he said, grinning.

Bunny beamed up at him, obviously relieved that he really could be a boy and a princess and a mermaid like Ariel. 

Mycroft had the boy washed, dried, and dressed in a pull-up and his Little Mermaid nightshirt-- “Boys can wear mermaid nightshirts, too, Daddy”--within twenty minutes. 

“Need Willa, Daddy,” Bunny said through a yawn as Mycroft steered the boy towards Sherlock’s bedroom. The kid was rarely without his plush rabbit while young. Mycroft was surprised it had been this long since he’d asked for her.

“Okay, honey bun,” Mycroft said. “You go climb into bed and Daddy will go get Willa and your blanket from upstairs.”

Bunny nodded, rubbing at tired eyes, and obeyed. Mycroft watched him make his way towards the bedroom, then gathered the wet clothes from the bathroom to toss into the hamper on his way upstairs. He found John’s comfort items where they were always tucked away in the man’s closet, then made his way back downstairs to Sherlock’s room. 

He could not help but grin at what he found when he pushed the door open. Sherlock was asleep in Greg’s arms and John was asleep behind Sherlock, their Bunny’s face pressed against the nape of their little pirate’s neck. Greg had drifted off as well. Now that he knew the boys were alright for the moment, he was clearly more content than he had been all day. Mycroft draped the baby blanket over Bunny, then propped Willa the rabbit on the pillow beside him. He settled the quilt over the three men and wished them all a whispered ‘goodnight’ as he left them to rest and pulled the door shut behind him. 

Mycroft removed his loosened tie and bent to pick up the puzzle pieces scattered across the living room carpet. 

It had been a trying day, and his worries over the potential backlash of Sherlock’s forgotten trauma had not been entirely assuaged. But, for the moment, it was almost enough to know that those he cared for most in the world, the three men he would protect at any cost from harm and lurking demons and pain, were warm, peaceful, and--although Mycroft may never admit it outside of the world they’d created for themselves--truly, selflessly loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Remember to check out ficlets for this series over on my [tumblr](https://little-brothers-mine.tumblr.com/), where I hope to have a new post up before the end of the week.
> 
> P.P.S. Look at [these](http://us.asos.com/asos/asos-rabbit-pompom-tee-legging-pajama-set/prd/9082267?affid=14174&channelref=product+search&mk=abc&currencyid=2&ppcadref=753857714%7C38363263886%7Cpla-168719798700&_cclid=v3_87a7c990-4310-5c47-99fe-bfa72faf0920&gclid=CjwKCAiAweXTBRAhEiwAmb3Xu84l69kkTxJDpw2--AnwzSdREGg3KtskthrgofNSjdCKNH4iGZGAKBoCCDcQAvD_BwE) adorable bunny pajamas I found online--how perfect would they be for our little Bunny? I may just have to buy them for myself if I have anything left over after my next paycheck :)


	19. Questions and Answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, loves!
> 
> My gift to you is a new chapter :) I was planning to pick up the narrative the next day, but our little Sherlock had too many questions and concerns left unaddressed, so we ended up with something a bit different. 
> 
> The only warning is that this was written fairly quickly and hasn't been edited, and is probably a little shmaltzy. 
> 
> Thanks for those of you who checked in with me--I'm doing much better than last week. Sending you all love and bunny kisses, as always!

If Mycroft thought the drama of the evening had ended once the boys had fallen back to sleep, he had vastly underestimated the troublesome nature of his kiddos and the impact their stressful day had placed upon them. It was half two when he was awakened by a sniffling Sherlock climbing into John's bed beside him.

“Sherlock?” he asked, immediately awake and alert as he sat up and clicked on the bedside lamp. “What’s wrong?”

“Bunny had a nightmare,” the boy said around the thumb in his mouth, curling up beside Mycroft and letting his head fall into his lap.

Mycroft reached to brush the curls from Sherlock’s sweaty forehead.

“But why are you crying, bud?” he asked, wiping tears from his brother’s cheeks.

Sherlock twisted his face against Mycroft’s stomach. 

“I’m not,” he said. 

Mycroft sighed and, wrapping his hands around Sherlock’s upper arm and one of his elbows, hoisted him up until he was seated in his lap. Sherlock whined, squirming to get away, but Mycroft held him firmly in place, and eventually the boy settled.

“‘Lock,” he said, tone expectant, still waiting for his brother to explain what had sent him scrambling up to his bed. 

Sherlock knuckled at an eye before putting his thumb back into his mouth. He looked at Mycroft with a bit of defiance, a sign Mycroft had long since understood signalled his brother’s need for discipline and a bit of humiliation. Sherlock wasn’t currently in a place to accept much coddling, but he could be comforted by Mycroft’s upholding of clear-cut rules they had settled on long ago. He could allow himself to settle lower in age if he were a bit ashamed. For Sherlock, firmness was its own breed of caretaking. 

“None of that,” Mycroft said, clucking his tongue as he nodded towards Sherlock. “You’re too old for that, now.”

Sherlock whined again, but pulled his thumb from his mouth.

“Papa told me to come sleep with you because Bunny was yelling,” he explained at last.

Mycroft must have been sleeping deeply to not have been woken by John’s nightmare. It was rare that John’s post-traumatic stress emerged while he was young, but it wasn’t unheard of. The man’s dreams were forceful and gruesome; Greg must have either wanted to spare Sherlock from watching while John was calmed, or spare John the audience. 

“Tell me what scared you,” Mycroft said, trusting that Greg was caring for their little Bunny downstairs and wanting to address the emotional state of the boy in his lap. 

Sherlock shrugged and turned his face against Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“Wasn’t scared,” he said, firmly settled into his most stubborn side of headspace. 

But Sherlock’s breath hitched, and Mycroft knew he was trying to hold back tears. 

The boy was between his middle and little headspaces at the moment, hovering a bit older than the age Bunny generally settled into and yet attempting to keep himself older for the sake of what was either pride or stubbornness, perhaps self-preservation in order to feel less rattled by Bunny's screams. Mycroft had only been present for two of Bunny's nightmares, and even he had been shaken by them.

“I’m right here,” Mycroft said. “You’re alright, now.”

He shifted the boy onto his hip and stood from the bed, carrying him towards the window as Sherlock gave into his tears. Mycroft did not acknowledge them, knowing the boy would only deny that he’d been crying. 

“Okay,” he said, bouncing Sherlock on his hip. “Tell me what you see, smart boy.” 

Sherlock pulled his head from Mycroft’s shoulder and blinked up at him before realizing they were at the window. He shifted his gaze to glance down toward the street. It was a tactic Mycroft had used when they were younger, distracting Sherlock from what had upset him by giving him the challenge of observation.

Sherlock wiped his nose on the back of his wrist and sat up taller in Mycroft’s arms. The street was quiet, lamps lit to cast a hazy glow on the pavement below. 

“That man,” Sherlock said, reaching to point towards the window at the only man walking down Baker Street in the middle of the night. “Tourist.”

“American?” Mycroft prompted despite already knowing the man was not.

Sherlock shook his head. 

“Italian.”

They spent the next ten minutes in front of the window, looking out onto Baker Street as Sherlock slowly moved from short-sentenced quips to prattling on about their neighbors and the occasional passer-by. It was only when a woman passed by walking her dog that Sherlock became quiet once more, pausing in the midst of a discussion of late-night traffic patterns to hide his face against Mycroft’s shoulder. 

Mycroft carried the boy back towards the bed, settling him and then climbing in beside him. Sherlock absent-mindedly fiddled with the bottom hem of Mycroft’s t-shirt.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asked as Mycroft reached to run his fingers through his brother’s hair, head leaned against the headboard and eyes slippling closed.

“Yes, bud?”

“Did I play pirates with Redbeard?”

Mycroft did what he could to keep his body relaxed despite the worry the question brought. There were calculations going through his mind all at once, potential stories he could attempt to weave and the likelihood of Sherlock's accepting them. But even Mycroft Holmes had had enough of hidden information and false statements for the day; hopefully, a little bit of truth would do more good than harm. As far as Mycroft could sense, the long-believed story that Redbeard was a dog had not been shaken by the morning’s discussion.

“You did, yes,” he said at last, and Sherlock nodded, nuzzling his face against Mycroft where he was resting his head against his thigh. 

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asked. 

“Hm?” he sounded.

Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows. He ran the sheets between his fingers and clutched Dimitri the dinosaur close beneath one arm. 

“Could I have saved Redbeard?” Sherlock asked, not making eye contact.

Mycroft sighed and paused in the routine of running his fingers through his brother’s hair. His hand rested against the back of the boy’s head, and he skirted it around to cup Sherlock’s cheek, guiding his brother to look up at him.

Who was to say whether Eurus’s convoluted rhyme had even been decipherable, let alone understandable, to a boy as young as Sherlock all those years ago? Who was to say she would have told them where she’d hidden Victor Trevor even if Sherlock had solved the riddle? Who was to say Victor had even been alive while Eurus tormented Sherlock with her sing-song? 

There were too many unknowns and too many falsified memories present to calculate the probability of the successful retrieval of the boy. 

“I don’t know, buddy,” Mycroft said, and it was quite possibly the most honest thing he’d said all day.

Sherlock leaned into Mycroft’s touch on his cheek, then yawned. Mycroft shifted down on the mattress and gently pulled the boy to lay against his chest.

“Bunny was screaming,” Sherlock said. “I woke up too fast and got scared.” 

“That does sound unsettling,” Mycroft said. “But you’re okay now, huh, bud?”

Sherlock nodded and yawned again. He reached out and pulled Mycroft’s arm until the man’s hand was resting once more on his head. Mycroft breathed a laugh, and began running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair once more; he knew when to take a hint.

“Redbeard was a good dog,” Sherlock mumbled, half-asleep, and Mycroft hummed in agreement. 

He could not hear any commotion downstairs, which he hoped meant that Greg had gotten Bunny back to sleep. He couldn’t wait to get the boys back to his house, where they had their own connected rooms just down the hall from the master bedroom and Mycroft could watch over them both. The quarters were too tight at Baker Street; there was not enough space for them to all be together at night, when the boys were most vulnerable to dark thoughts and nightmares. 

He had just about slipped into sleep when Sherlock spoke up once again. 

“Mycroft?” he asked.

The man forced his eyes open.

“Yes, Lock?” he asked, and, this time, Mycroft did not comment on the thumb which had made its way into the boy’s mouth 

“I think I had an accident.”

Mycroft sighed and let his head fall against the headboard. Sherlock's pull-up had been dry when he’d carried him over to the window, which meant he’d peed since being placed back into bed. It seemed the night was destined to be one of very little sleep for both himself and Greg.

“You think, or you know?” he asked, raising an eyebrows as he glanced down at the boy’s upturned face.

Sherlock squirmed where he lay, clearly uncomfortable under big brother’s gaze.

“I know,” he whispered, cheeks blooming pink. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, allowing himself a moment of frustration as he pushed the blankets back and climbed out of the bed. “You know better than that. I thought you were a big boy.”

“I am!” Sherlock said, voice laced with anger. “I’m not a baby!”

Mycroft paused to take a breath, knowing any further shows of exasperation would simply lead to a full-on strop from Sherlock. It wasn't exactly fair of him to chastise the boy, but he was tired, and he knew very well the boy had made the conscious decision to stay where he was and wet himself rather than get up to use the loo. He made his way to John’s closet, where he rooted around in the man's ageplay items until, thankfully, he found a spare pull-up.

“I had to go potty,” Sherlock explained as Mycroft’s back was turned to him. "I couldn't hold it."

The boy was attempting to gain sympathy points. It may have worked with Greg, who was less used to Sherlock’s ploys, but Mycroft could see straight through the boy's attempts to excuse away his wet pull-up as anything other than an intentional wetting. 

“Let’s get you sorted, then,” he said, gesturing with the hand holding the pull-up towards the bathroom off the bedroom.

Sherlock caught sight of what Mycroft was holding, and shook his head, glaring. 

“I’m not wearing that,” he spat, and suddenly Mycroft was dealing with a moody pre-teen, railing over rules he believed didn’t apply to him. “I’m not a girl.”

“Wearing a purple pull-up doesn’t make you a girl,” Mycroft said. “You need sleep and you’re lucky I’m not putting you in the corner for peeing your pants when you know better. Now, come here.”

Sherlock sat up and crossed his arms.

“No,” he said.

Mycroft did not care whether Sherlock approved of the color of pull-up in his hand. He was not about to traipse down the creaky old steps of Baker Street and risk disturbing John after Greg had likely gone to such trouble to get the boy settled and comforted simply to get a boy’s pull-up in the downstairs bathroom cabinet. Sherlock could survive one night of wearing one of John’s butterfly pull-ups.

However, he could see defiance just behind the boy’s eyes; Sherlock was clearly waiting for any excuse to kick and scream. Mycroft needed to tread carefully if he wanted to get the boy changed and back into bed without incident. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “This is what we have right now. I’ll wake up your brother if I go downstairs. No one is going to see what you’re wearing, so be a good boy and let me get you changed.”

Sherlock stared, face set, for a moment, as if contemplating his options. After a moment, his desire to get out of the wet pull-up seemed to win-out, and although he sighed dramatically to signal his displeasure, he laid back and kicked the blankets off of himself. He pulled his pajama shirt up and lay flat on the bed, arms to his sides and legs kicked out straight as if waiting for Mycroft to change him on the bed.

“No,” Mycroft said. “I’m not doing all of the work for you. Come here.”

Sherlock huffed as he pulled himself off the mattress and stomped over towards Mycroft. He stopped his show of storming about and grumbling when he was met with his brother’s eyebrows raised in displeasure.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asked as Mycroft helped him pull down his pants and soaked pull-up.

“Yes, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, steeling himself against sighing over his brother’s upteenth question that evening. 

“Is Bunny a girl, now?”

Mycroft waited until he’d finished wiping his brother down with baby wipes to answer, taking the time to gather his thoughts. He had been anticipating this conversation with Sherlock since Bunny had chosen to express himself as female. And, although he hadn’t expected it would happen in the midst of a middle-of-the-night diaper change, he knew it was a conversation he could not shy away from.

Mycroft patted the outer edge of Sherlock’s thigh to signal the boy was all set. He stood from the crouched position he had been in to clean up Sherlock and tossed the used wipes and the pull-up into the trash. 

“Finish your pee and get dressed,” he said, knowing that if Sherlock had fully emptied his bladder, he would have wet his pants and the bed as well as the pull-up. “Then meet me back in the bedroom and we’ll talk.”

Mycroft straightened the sheets and comforter as he waited for his brother. He kept himself from glancing at the clock. He and Greg had cleared their schedule for the folloiwng day, which meant he would not be required to be at the office early, but he still wasn’t keen to keep a timed record of the amount of sleep he was losing. 

Sherlock re-entered the bedroom, yanking his dinosaur pajama pants up over the purple pull-up. Mycroft had to keep himself from teasing his brother about how cute he looked wearing butterfly bedwetting pants. Sherlock was certainly not in the mood to appreciate any teasing. 

“Wash your hands,” Mycroft said.

“I did!” Sherlock argued, but they both knew it was a lie, and after a pointed look from Mycroft, Sherlock gave another dramatic sigh, but obeyed.

“Okay,” he said when the boy returned and was sitting cross-legged on the bed, facing him. “Let’s talk about Bunny.”

Mycroft wasn’t entirely sure how to begin, and part of him wondered whether Bunny should be present for the conversation, or an aged-up John. But Sherlock was looking up at him with the trust that he had the answers, and he could at least tell the boy what he knew.

“Is he a girl, now?” Sherlock asked, repeating his earlier question.

“Bunny has decided that, sometimes, he wants to be a girl,” Mycroft explained. “And sometimes, he wants to be a boy.” 

“Why?” Sherlock asked, and his loud, rather insensitive tone made Mycroft glad they were having this initial conversation out of Bunny’s earshot.

“That’s a question that I’m sure Bunny would be happy to answer,” Mycroft said. “From my understanding, sometimes he feels more like a girl than a boy. When that happens, he’d rather be a girl than spend lots of energy trying to be a boy just to make others happy. Do you understand?”

Sherlock shrugged, which, in his current mood, Mycroft knew was as close as he was going to get to admitting confusion. 

“Let me try to explain it another way,” Mycroft said, and he was glad that, at the moment, Sherlock was proving patient. “How old do you feel right now?”

Sherlock immediately opened his mouth to speak, but Mycroft held up a hand to silence him.

“Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear or how old you wish you felt,” he said. “Tell me how old you truly feel right now.”

Sherlock ducked his head and, after a moment, held up a hand of five fingers.

“Five years old?” Mycroft confirmed, and Sherlock, looking sheepish, nodded.

“Good,” Mycroft said, praising Sherlock’s honesty. 

He reached to squeeze the boy’s knee and placed Dimitri the dinosaur into the boy’s arms to provide some comfort. 

“We usually know how we’re feeling, even if we don’t always know where those feelings come from. And that’s good,” Mycroft explained, speaking slower than usual to ensure the boy understood him, particularly now that he knew how young his little brother was feeling. “But, sometimes, even when you’re _feeling_ five years old, it can be hard to let yourself _be_ five years old. Sometimes there are voices in your mind that tell you you shouldn’t be five years old.” 

Sherlock nodded.

“They tell me to be big,” he mumbled.

“That’s right,” Mycroft said. “Everyone has voices like that. And if we listen to the voices and act the way they tell us to, we usually end up feeling sad and frustrated. Eventually we stop feeling like ourselves altogether.” 

Sherlock seemed a bit lost in thought, but Mycroft reached to stroke the boy’s cheek to reassure him. Sherlock caught his eye once more, and Mycroft knew he was ready to listen once more when the boy nodded. 

“Bunny sometimes feels big and he sometimes feels little, just like you,” Mycroft explained. “But what's a little bit different is that sometimes, when Bunny feels little, Bunny feels like a little girl instead of a little boy. He might not know where those feelings come from, but they’re there the same way your feelings about being five years old are, and he needs to trust them." 

Mycroft paused in an attempt to gauge how much of his rather convoluted explanation an overtired little Sherlock was grasping. Adult Sherlock had likely done his fair share of cerebric processing regarding John’s decision to express himself as feminine. However, as with all new developments, Sherlock was not nearly as skilled at processing his feelings. His younger side allowed his intellectual understanding to fall away in lieu of his emotional, and it allowed Mycroft to help Sherlock come to terms with all sides of a situation.

"The voices in Bunny’s head don’t tell Bunny he can’t be five years old," Mycroft said. "They tell her she can’t be a girl.”

“Bunny shouldn’t listen to the mean voices,” Sherlock said, and Mycroft smiled.

“Exactly, sweetheart,” he said. “If Bunny wants to be a girl sometimes, she’ll be happiest if she listens to how she feels. Just like you’ll be happiest if you listen when you feel five, or ten, or two.”

Sherlock ducked his head in a blush, as ever embarrassed by the mention of his youngest headspaces. But he nodded, and, slipping his thumb into his mouth, shifted to lean against Mycroft. 

“Do you have any other questions, buddy?” Mycroft asked as Sherlock yawned around his thumb. 

Sherlock seemed to think for a minute, softly suckling on his thumb as he rubbed at one eye.

“What do the voices tell you and Papa?” the boy asked.

Mycroft was a bit taken aback. Young Sherlock tended to err on the side of selfishness, as did his older counterpart. He had certainly grown in this regard--due in no uncertain terms to introducing Bunny and Greg into their little ageplay world--but Mycroft was still not always prepared for Sherlock to take an interest in others.

“I suppose some of the voices tell us we aren’t doing a good enough job of caring for you and Bunny,” Mycroft said, lost in thought as he put into words something he had rarely spoken aloud. “They tell us we’re one misstep away from doing more harm than good.”

It was something which had been on his mind all day: the impossibility of knowing the impact your words and actions might have on the children you cared for. He was resigned in his decision not to reveal all about Eurus to Sherlock and John, but he could not help but question what would happen when the truth was eventually revealed. He was no stranger to lying to his brother for the younger’s own protection, having begun the practice long ago, but there was no telling whether he had made the correct decisions along the way. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s waist and pressed his head against Mycroft’s hip.

“Those voices are meanies,” Sherlock said, and Mycroft could not help but chuckle and agree.

"Do you think you can support Bunny when she's feeling like a girl?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded, then succumbed to a yawn. The boy was barely holding on to wakefulness. 

"Won't be mean like the voices," he mumbled, eyes half-lidded. 

“That's good, smart boy,” Mycroft said, reaching to click off the bedside lamp at long last.

He wasn't sure Sherlock would be able to uphold his promise, particularly if he was feeling jealous of the attention Bunny may be perceived to be receiving as a girl, but it was a start. 

“Now, it’s far past all good little boys’ bedtimes," Mycroft said. "Goodnight, buddy.”

Sherlock yawned and turned to snuggle into the pillow on his side of the bed.

“Goodnight, My,” he said. 

Mycroft had a fleeting thought that he should root through John’s closet to see if he could find the boy a pacifier, but he rationalized that, if the boy were truly feeling five years old, the thumb was a bit more apt, and he stayed put. It was early enough that light was beginning to fill the room from the window he had forgotten to pull the shade back down over, and Sherlock was peaceful and quiet at last, nearly asleep already. 

On a whim, he made sure the sound was turned off on his phone and took a picture of the boy, all flushed cheeks and long lashes as he slumbered with his thumb in his mouth. He sent the image off to Greg, knowing the man would be pleased to wake up to a reminder of Sherlock at his sweetest--especially if, as Mycroft expected, Sherlock was an over-tired and misbehaving mess the next day. 

Surprisingly, he received a text back from Greg a moment later. Mycroft smiled to himself as he opened the picture Greg had sent: Bunny cuddled with his head in Greg’s lap, sucking on a pacifier, face half-hidden by his baby blanket. 

_Glad to know I’m not the only one up at this ungodly hour_ , Greg texted a moment later.

 _It’s going to be a long day, tomorrow_ , Mycroft responded.

If they were lucky, the boys would sleep in to make up for some of the late-night wakefulness. But Mycroft knew his boys, and he could already envision the tantrums and tears and whining he and Greg would face the next day from grumpy, sleep-deprived kids. 

_That it will_. Greg texted. Then: _I’m game if you are_.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. His boyfriend, ever the ardent optimist.

Nevertheless, Greg’s enthusiasm for tackling each and every thing related to their little family head-on bolstered Mycroft. They would gather up the boys and their things, take them back to Mycroft’s flat, and deal with each issue as it presented itself, just as they had that evening since arriving at Baker Street.

 _Goodnight, love_ , Mycroft sent. _Get some sleep_. 

_The kiddos will be alright_ , Greg sent, followed by a few x’s and o’s. _We’ll make sure of it._

And it was exactly what Mycroft needed to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr, [here](https://little-brothers-mine.tumblr.com/) (I promise I'll try to get a new ficlet up in the next day or two, even if it's a short one!).
> 
> EDIT: New Ficlet uploaded on tumblr 2/16--heed the tags, as it's a tad bit different than most of my posts!


	20. Rough Mornings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, loves--I'm so sorry it's been such a long time since I've updated. I've had quite a busy few weeks (moving, finishing up one contract job and starting another), and I've only had scattered amounts of short bursts of time to work on this chapter (I even wrote a bit of this chapter the subway yesterday, which I almost never do!). 
> 
> I would love to take another day or two to tighten this chapter up and get it where I'd like it to be, but because I won't have a day off for another week and two days, I figured that might not be realistic. So, I figured it would be best to get it posted so all of you lovely humans can at least have a continuation of the story! Let me know if you have any feedback--this is definitely one I may go back to edit at a future date!
> 
> I hope I'll be able to get another chapter up within a week--I'm going to do my best to stick to that schedule if at all posssible! I will respond to the comments from last chapter ASAP, but don't have time now (need to sleep!). Let me just say that you're all amazing and your encouragement means the world to me--thank you for commenting!
> 
> Sending Bunny kisses as always. <3
> 
> Note: edited to include tumblr link--sorry the link was broken in my profile!

Bunny was sulking in the backseat of Papa’s car, arms crossed and feet perched on the seat so he could press his knees against his chest and make it more difficult for Daddy to fasten his seatbelt. He had thrown Willa the rabbit into the footwell alongside his cast-away pacifier, and was currently glaring at Daddy, who was climbing into the passenger seat after placing Sherlock and Bunny’s overnight bags into the trunk.

It had been an awful morning. 

Not only had he been woken up far too early by a screaming Sherlock who was sore about being made to eat breakfast, but to make matters worse, he had realized as he turned to pull a pillow over his head in order to drown out Sherlock’s screeching that the sheets and his pajama bottoms were cold and sopping wet. He must have wet his pull-up more than once since Papa had gotten him to sleep after his middle-of-the-night nightmare. The pull-up had leaked badly, and he was uncomfortable, embarrassed, and in need of a change of clothes. He hadn’t felt big or brave enough to traipse out into the kitchen to admit what he’d done, so Bunny huddled beneath his sheets, sucking his thumb and wishing the day would start all over again. 

When Daddy did come to check on him, Bunny started to cry, and even though Daddy had done his best to get him ushered into the hallway loo as discreetly as possible, Sherlock had seen and, pausing in his strop to glance towards Bunny, had teased. 

He’d wanted a bath, clean clothes, and to be allowed to go back to bed, where he could suck his pacifier and forget about the chaos of the morning and the seemingly endless tantrum Sherlock was throwing in the other room. But Daddy did not run a bath, clearly having another plan for Bunny’s morning.

“We need to have a chat, little one,” Daddy said as he stripped him of his soiled clothes and sopping pull-up.

Bunny stood shifting from foot to foot on the cold tiles of the lino, rubbing sleep from his eyes and waiting for Daddy to get a clean pull-up from beneath the sink cabinet. But Daddy only took a seat on the closed-lid of the toilet and guided the boy by the wrists to step close until he was standing in front of him between his knees. 

“Two nights ago, you made some rather poor decisions,” he said, crooking a thumb beneath Bunny’s chin to angle his gaze towards him. “What do you think we should do about that?”

Bunny whined in the back of his throat and shook his head as he attempted to squirm away. He didn’t want to have a chat or to stand half-naked in the cold bathroom. He wanted to get dressed and be put back to bed, and he wanted the memories of last night’s nightmare to stop encroaching on his thoughts so that he could get some sleep. 

“Nothing,” Bunny said, the words only coming with effort because he felt exposed and trapped and emotionally vulnerable. “Was big.” 

He tried once more to yank his hands from Daddy’s grasp, but Daddy clucked his tongue and tightened his knees around Bunny’s legs to keep him in place. 

“Yes, you were aged up at the time, kiddo,” Daddy said, eyes softening a bit. “But that doesn’t excuse the behavior. Not only did you choose to self-soothe by over-consuming alcohol, but you placed yourself into a rather reckless situation. You’re lucky you weren’t seriously injured.”

When Daddy reached up to graze a knuckle over the bruise on Bunny’s cheekbone, the boy jerked his head backwards to escape the attention being brought to the purpling contusion. 

“No, Daddy,” he whined, feeling just as frustrated as he was sad. He didn't want his Daddy to touch the tender spot on his skin. He stomped a foot in irritation even as he blinked back tears.

Daddy’s eyebrow raised in displeasure at Bunny’s stomping feet and rather bratty whines. It was an eyebrow raise Bunny had grown accustomed to seeing whenever Sherlock was naughty, but one he had rarely been on the receiving end of himself. It made him feel small, and a bit afraid.

“You know you can always come to me or Papa if you’re feeling confused or upset,” Daddy said with a sigh. “It’s disappointing that you chose instead to behave in a destructive manner.” 

“Sorry,” Bunny mumbled because he knew it was what Daddy expected. But there was no contrition in his voice, and his eyes were distant as he stared at the lino. “Won’t do it again.”

Daddy took both of Bunny’s hands in his own.

“I appreciate that you regret your actions,” he said. “But I think we need to ensure that a bit more definitively.” 

Bunny hadn’t realized they were heading towards a spanking until the moment his Daddy shifted the boy out from between his knees and nudged him over his lap. 

“No,” Bunny said as he felt his feet fall out from under him and found himself reaching to clutch the edge of the bathtub beside the toilet in order to stabilize himself, bare bottom exposed over his Daddy’s lap and tears falling even before the first smack. 

“I’ll be good!” he gasped. “I’m sorry!”

But Daddy had not been amenable to Bunny’s pleas. He had put him through two rounds of rather relentless spankings, Bunny thrashing about as he received slaps to alternating sides of his naked arse, his Daddy’s hand coming down without warning or method as Bunny kicked and writhed. By the time Daddy finally agreed that he’d had enough, Bunny had shifted from his initial defiance into a weepy, pliable submission.

Now, buckled into the backseat of Papa’s car, shifting to keep his sore bum from making too much contact with the seat, Bunny felt nothing but tired and irritable. He was vacillating between headspaces, unsure of where exactly he would land. 

His adult mind rationalized that Mycroft had surprised him with the spanking because he’d likely wanted to get the punishment over with before they left Baker Street. It was likely his thought that a spanking at Baker Street could put a full stop to the events of the past few days, could put an end to the most recent unpleasantness and pave the way for a fresh start once they arrived at his flat. 

But the spanking had done little to put an end to John’s worries about Sherlock or what they had been through at Baker Street over the past few days. Instead of allowing Bunny the opportunity to put away the worries that had led him to the bar in the first place, the spanking had stirred them all up once more. With each stinging slap to his arse, he was reminded of the questions he still had yet to answer, reminded of his inability to fully take care of his boyfriend. 

“All set, kiddos?” Papa asked from the driver’s seat, twisting over his shoulder to glance back at them. 

John refused to answer, eyebrows furrowed as he glared. He was too adult to be little and too little to be adult, which made him feel rather unmoored. Sherlock grunted an affirmative, busy with the handheld video game he was allowed to use when they travelled in the car. Bunny had one as well--tucked in the seat pocket in front of him--but it made his stomach hurt to stare at the small screen while the car was moving, so he rarely took it out to play. 

He ran a finger along his bottom lip, trying to make himself feel young enough to want to suck his thumb. He’d refused comfort from both his Daddy and Papa after his spanking--closing himself in the bedroom closet and refusing to come out until they’d threatened a second spanking--but, as he struggled to age back down, he regretted that he hadn’t allowed their offered care. A bit of coddling may have been just what he needed to settle him back down. 

He watched the pedestrians on the London sidewalks, not bothering to map out the route they were driving to Mycroft's. He had wanted to stay at Baker street, where the younger side of himself felt comforted by how familiar and cozy it was and the older side of himself knew he could retreat back into his adult life if he was unable to fully settle back down in age. But they were already on their way, and unless he did something quickly, he would be pulled fully out of headspace and back to the stressors of his adult life before they even made it to Mycroft’s. The past few days had been trying; he wanted a day of simple calm while little, not a day of vacillating headspaces lurching him unceremoniously back to adulthood. 

It was only when he shifted on the seat and pressed his legs together involuntarily that he realized with a blush what he was going to have to do. 

Mycroft had insisted that he try to “use the potty” before they left Baker Street, but a grumpy Bunny had not been in the mood to listen to his Daddy after the spanking. He’d pretended to use the loo, then he had been ushered downstairs towards the waiting double-parked car. No one had been paying enough attention to notice that he hadn’t actually peed. John could now feel the consequences of his stubbornness; his bladder was heavy, and persistent, jostled as they twisted through the London streets. 

His heart beat. He was too adult to ignore the bit of guilt he felt knowing he was contemplating willingly peeing himself all over Greg’s backseat, but he knew that, were he ever to question John’s motives, Greg would understand. Papa just wanted his boys to be content, and John knew wetting his pants in the backseat of Greg’s car would almost certainly settle him quickly into an embarrassed, snivelling headspace. 

In the front seats, Mycroft and Greg were involved in a conversation about the schedule for the next few days, and when John chanced a glance at Sherlock, worried his boyfriend may catch on to what he was planning to do, he found Sherlock still firmly aged down, happily absorbed in his video games and mumbling to himself as he played. 

Mycroft, perhaps sensing John was feeling older after his spanking but likely just wanting to continue Bunny’s punishment by ensuring the reddened skin of his bum was smarting against the car seat in only the thin layer of cotton beneath his jeans--had dressed him in underwear. It would have been far easier to wet himself in a pull-up, but there was nothing to be done, now; he would have to make do. 

With a small catch of breath in the back of his throat, he allowed himself to release a trickle of urine. He stopped himself right away, however, the shock of the dribble soaking into his briefs jarring him into a slight gasp.

“Alright there, princess?” Papa asked, tilting his head and catching John’s eye in the rear view mirror.

John nodded, squirming a bit in the seat as he swallowed and waited for Papa’s attention to return to the road. Sherlock cast a momentary sideways glance towards John, and it became clear from his expression that he knew the predicament John was in. Luckily, he only looked at him with interest for a moment before turning back to his video game, choosing not to give John away. 

A part of John questioned whether he should go through with the plan, but the slight warmth of his damp briefs against his skin was comforting, and the thought of helplessly wetting himself, the knowledge that he was so close to losing it in his pants, was already making him feel smaller. So, with a deep breath and a burying of his face into the knees against his chest, John released his bladder and began to pee.

While his eyes were closed it was easy enough to envision himself sitting on the loo at home while he peed, but the spreading warmth in his briefs and jeans kept him from forgetting that he was in Papa’s car, and a blush spread to his cheeks as liquid began spreading. 

There was a sudden fear but a welcome, blissfully quick shift into his smaller headspace, urine streaming fast and strong into and through his pants. 

He hadn’t realized just how much of a mess he would make, and, as he felt urine pooling beneath him on the carseat, he became nervous. What if Papa was mad about his backseat? What if Daddy punished him for not going potty when he’d been told to? What if he got another spanking on his already sore bum? Maybe this all wasn’t such a good idea, after all. 

“Papa, I have to go potty!” he said all at once, changing his mind and suddenly stuffing his hands into his crotch in an attempt to stop the flow. “I’m gonna have an accident!”

But it was far too late. Daddy twisted in his seat, and Bunny could see the expression on his face shift from one of concern to one of exasperation as he realized that Bunny wasn’t _going to_ have an accident, he was _already having_ one. The liquid spilled off the seat and began to drip into the footwell.

“Oh, bud,” Daddy sighed.

Bunny could not help but feel tears well up in his eyes. Daddy’s words were laced in disappointment. 

“I didn’t mean to!” Bunny lied as he finally finished emptying his bladder, pants and underwear absolutely sopping wet.

“First you wet your bed and now you wet your pants” Sherlock said, not looking up from his handheld game. “You really are a baby.”

“Sherlock!” Daddy chastised as he twisted around his shoulder to glare at the curly-haired boy. 

But Sherlock only shrugged, and returned to his game. 

“I’m not a baby!” Bunny said when he caught Daddy’s eye, face crumbling as he gave into the building tears. “I just couldn’t hold it,” he mumbled.

“It’s alright, ladybug,” Daddy said, and Papa chimed in to say that it was nothing a good deep-clean wouldn’t handle.

Bunny could feel his reddened cheeks, but he could also feel the haziness of his mind, a serene pleasure that came from knowing his biggest worry at the moment was how he was going to find a clean pair of pants. His adult thoughts were floating somewhere in another time and place, but it was a time and place that had little to do with the kid he was with Papa, Daddy, and Sherlock.

He rubbed at his tearful eyes and then bent down in an attempt to reach towards the pacifier in the footwell. He wanted the comfort. But Daddy reached into the back seat to pick up the pacifier before Bunny’s fingers could close around it.

“Not off of the floor, kiddo,” he said. “Let’s wait until we get home so we can get you a clean one of those, alright?” 

“No,” Bunny whined, sniffling. “I want that.” 

“I know, Bun,” Daddy said. “But it’s dirty. We’ll get you a nice clean one at home.” 

Bunny whined but reached to grab Willa, and at least his Daddy did not attempt to take her away. 

He sat back heavily against the seat of the car, clutching her to his chest. He was feeling a bit of his earlier frustration enter into his psyche, picking up in headspace just where he had left off, but above all he felt nothing but small. He was wet and tired, and his bum was sore and stinging where his reddened skin came in contact with his pee, but at least he was little. 

At the moment, as they pulled up to Mycroft's flat and Papa began to come around the car to pull open his door, kiss his forehead, and wipe his tears, nothing else mattered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read the newest ficlet, "Naughty Naptime," it's up on my tumblr, [Little Brothers Mine](https://little-brothers-mine.tumblr.com/) :)


	21. Papa and Bunny Heart to Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of your lovely comments on the previous chapter, loves! I finally had a day off, so I was able to work on a new chapter for all of you. This story is coming to an end (probably only one or two more chapters), but I already know what I'd like the next story of focus on (we get a bit of a hint in this chapter), so I'm generating ideas and beginning to plan. Bunny's gender identity will still be explored in new stories, but it won't be the main focus of them in the way it was throughout this story. Let me know if there's anything else regarding Bunny's gender identity that you'd like to see before this story finishes up! 
> 
> There's a new ficlet up on my tumblr (link in the end notes)! It was my birthday this week (yay!) so it's appropriately themed :)
> 
> Sending you all love and wishes for a wonderful week! <3

It was clear to Greg as he lifted a dripping John out of the wet backseat that the boy was having a rough morning. Mycroft had specifically instructed Bunny to use the loo before they’d left Baker Street, and it was now clear that their usually compliant child had deliberately disobeyed his Daddy’s request. It was out of character for their sweet Bunny who generally felt too much guilt to break the rules, and Greg wanted nothing more than to clean him up, give him some love, and see what was bothering him. 

“He deserves a second spanking,” Mycroft said, voice low when he confronted Greg outside the bathroom door. 

Greg had dropped Bunny off in the downstairs bathroom--the closest to the front door--and had then left to get wipes and clean clothes, telling the boy he’d be right back. He pulled the doorway almost all the way closed after peeking in to make sure the boy had not heard Mycroft’s frustrated opinion. Bunny did not need the fear of another spanking looming over him. John had been quite clear when he first agreed to ageplay that he did not appreciate spankings, and although Greg relented from time to time when Mycroft felt it was the only option with the boy, it never sat right with him when Mycroft set about punishing their little Bunny in that way. 

“This isn’t about your status as authority figure right now, love,” Greg said as he reached to squeeze Mycroft’s shoulder. “We need to figure out what’s going on in that little head of his.” 

“Gregory, Bunny deliberately disobeyed me,” Mycroft said, gesturing towards the bathroom with a jerk of his arm. 

“Yes,” Greg agreed. “And, given Bunny’s previous behavior, we need to see that as an anomaly that signals a cry for help in some way. Let me clean him up and talk to him. Once we know what’s on his--or her--mind, we can determine what punishments are necessary.”

“Mycroft?” It was Sherlock, tugging on Mycroft’s shirt with a whine. “I’m hungry.”

It was no wonder. The boy had thrown a fit all through breakfast, and hadn’t eaten more than two bites all told. It was still mid-morning, but Greg was sure the boy would no longer scoff at the prospect of breakfast. 

“I’ll make you a snack, buddy,” Mycroft said. 

He glanced at Greg once more, but then his posture dropped a bit, and Greg knew he’d won for the moment. Mycroft turned to guide Sherlock into the kitchen. He looked back at Greg with a raised eyebrow before disappearing around the curve of the hallway. Greg could hear Sherlock prattling on about dinosaur facts and statistics, and asking for ice cream and cookies.

Bunny was tearful and timid when Greg returned with a change of clothes. His arms were wrapped around himself in a hug, and he looked rather pitifully small.

“Hey there, cutie,” Greg said, voice soft and as warm. “You doing okay?”

Bunny looked up at him and shrugged, and Greg could sense that the boy was feeling a bit non-verbal. He couldn’t wait to gather the boy into his arms and give him the comfort he deserved.

“Let’s get you out of these yucky jeans and undies, okay?”

Bunny blushed, then took in breath and began to open his mouth as if he was planning to apologize. 

“Shush, no need for any of that right now, kiddo,” Greg said as he crouched before the boy and began to pop the button of his jeans. “Just let Papa take care of you.”

And then Bunny was crying, which Greg knew was likely due to the guilt the boy felt over wetting his backseat. He also knew there was no amount of verbal assurances that would convince Bunny that Greg was not upset, so instead he focused on showing the boy through his gentle actions as he helped him step out of his wet jeans and underwear and began wiping him down with baby wipes. 

“Which would you like, little Bunny?” Greg asked when Bunny was clean, holding out a pair of training underwear and a butterfly pull-up. 

Bunny was chewing on his thumbnail and rubbing tears from his eyes, but he pointed towards the pull-up after very little consideration.

“Good choice, princess,” Greg said, and he could see his wide smile settled Bunny a bit. 

When the kid was settled in a dry pull-up and the wet clothing had been tossed into the hamper beside the downstairs washer and dryer, Greg reached for the clothing options he’d brought. He was unsure whether Bunny was currently in a boyish mindset or if he felt like a girl, and he hadn’t wanted to box him into any one identity, so he had brought multiple items of clothing for the Bunny to pick through. 

Bunny ended up choosing a pair of blue leggings with silver stars scattered over them, a soft grey t-shirt, and an oversized purple sweatshirt that dropped down to his thighs. Greg finished the outfit by helping Bunny into some warm ladybug socks, then lifted the kid beneath the arms and onto his hip. 

“Better?” he asked a Bunny who had already rested his head on Greg’s shoulder. 

Bunny nodded, still sniffling from the recent tears, thumb planted in mouth. Greg carried the little one upstairs and into Bunny’s woodland creatures bedroom, where he sat in the rocking chair and situated the kiddo onto his lap so that Bunny could lay against his chest as they rocked back and forth.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” Bunny whispered after they had been rocking for the better part of twenty minutes. 

Greg stopped the movement of the rocking chair and helped Bunny sit up on his lap so that he could see his kid’s face and eyes. 

“I’m not mad, princess,” Greg said, needing to assure Bunny first and foremost. “But I am a little confused. Daddy asked you to use the potty before you left Baker Street.”

Bunny nodded and hid his face against Willa the rabbit, who hadn't been out of Bunny's arms for more than a moment since they'd left the car. 

“Didn’t want to go potty,” Bunny mumbled, and Greg gently guided the kid’s stuffed friend away from his face. “Was mad at Daddy.” 

“Can you tell me why you were mad, sweetheart?” Greg asked. "Papa's just trying to understand."

Bunny shrugged, pulling at his bottom lip.

“I need you to try to use your words, kiddo. You’re safe, here. I've got you” 

Bunny whined a bit in the back of his throat, but then nodded when Greg took his hand and squeezed it for reassurance. 

“Daddy spanked me,” Bunny said, and his cheeks blazed pink at the memory.

“I know, kiddo,” Greg said. “He needed to make sure you would think twice before putting yourself in a dangerous situation like the other night.”

“I didn’t like it,” Bunny said, clearly distraught. “Made me feel too big.” 

Greg raised his chin in realization, suddenly understanding exactly what had been going on in their littlest kiddo’s head since that morning. The spanking had threatened his headspace, had challenged his ability to stay little. Unlike Sherlock, for whom spankings led to lower headspaces, John had been pulled out of his little self by the harsh punishment.

“Okay,” Greg said. “So you went potty in your pants in order to help you feel little again?”

Bunny nodded, then blushed and dove to bury his face against Greg’s shoulder once more.

“Sorry I was bad, Papa,” the kid said, sniffling again. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a big boy for you and Daddy.”

Greg clucked his tongue and rubbed his hand along Bunny’s back as he hugged the boy to his chest. He whispered assurances into his ear, telling him he understood and that he wasn’t in trouble and that the car seat would clean up just fine. He began rocking the boy once more, hoping to keep him from more tears. Eventually, the boy was quiet and sleepy on his shoulder.

“Papa?” he asked, and Greg hummed to signal that he was listening. 

“I don’t want to wear underwear, anymore,” Bunny said. “At least not for a little while.” 

Greg pulled the boy away from his chest again and glanced at him with a bit of confusion.

“What do you mean, kiddo?”

Bunny knuckled at an eye and began twisting one of Willa’s soft ears between his fingers. 

“Daddy said I could always wear pull-ups,” the boy said. “At the lake house. He said I could be potty training.”

“Is that what you want, baby?”

Bunny nodded.

“Want to wear pull-ups and get stickers on a chart,” he said, still staring down at his stuffed rabbit. “Want it not to be so bad if I have accidents.” 

Greg smiled at the boy and reached to cup his cheek. He was proud of the strides John had made in expressing his desires and needs while in headspace. Mycroft had not discussed with him John’s desire to potty train, perhaps just not having time given the fast-paced nature of their daily lives since returning from their lake house getaway and the drama over Redbeard, but he knew it was something they could easily accommodate. He was certainly willing to do whatever it would take to keep the excited sparkle he could currently identify in his kid’s eye.

“I think that sounds like a great idea, baby,” Greg said. “I’ll talk it over with Daddy and remind him that you’re still just learning to use the potty. Does that sound okay?”

Bunny beamed up at him and nodded, then wrapped his arms around him as he dove forward into a hug. Greg gave a content chuckle, pleased to finally feel as if he’d settled the boy and gotten him past the stress of the morning. 

“Do I gotta be punished for peeing in the car?” Bunny asked when he pulled away from the hug.

“No,” Greg said, quick to reassure the boy that he was not in trouble for his accident. “But I do think a time-out is in order for disobeying Daddy.”

Bunny sighed, but relented.

“Okay,” he said. “But just a short one?”

Greg nodded, then stood from the rocking chair with the boy in his arms. The boy pointed to the pacifier on the bedside table, and Greg pocketed it, telling the boy he could have it as soon as his timeout was all finished. 

“Alright, baby. Let’s take you down to apologize to Daddy and have a little timeout.” 

It was when they were nearly out of the doorway that Greg caught sight of the unicorn headband he had given Bunny before the debacle of Bunny leaving and the all-encompassing worry of potentially triggering Sherlock’s memory of Eurus and Victor Trevor. Greg understood Mycroft’s worries regarding keeping Sherlock from the pain of the past, but, now that the danger of remembrance seemed to have dissipated for the moment, he wanted to ensure Bunny still felt comfortable expressing him or herself fully.

“Bun, are you still feeling like a boy, today?” he asked, pausing in the doorway.

Bunny’s gaze shifted down to the ground, and he shrugged.

“Listen to me, kiddo,” Greg said, walking back into the room and setting Bunny down on the end of the bed so that he could sit beside him and ensure he knew Greg was serious about his choice of words. “It’s important that you pay attention to how you’re feeling. Are you feeling like Papa and Daddy’s little girl, right now?”

Bunny gave a slight, barely perceptible nod.

“Good girl,” Greg said. “Thank you for being honest.”

“But I don’t want to make Sherlock sad, Papa,” Bunny said.

“Honey bun, Sherlock loves you,” Greg said with a sigh. “He may not show it all the time, but he wants you to be happy and to be yourself. If you’re feeling like a girl right now, I think it’s best that we let you be a girl and introduce you to your big brother. He might surprise you.”

Greg gave Bunny a few moments to process, but was relieved when his girl gave a quiet, “okay,” and pulled Willa closer to her chest. 

“There’s my brave girl,” Greg said with a grin, so enthusiastic that Bunny could not help but give a small smile back.

Greg knew the kid could walk herself downstairs, but he was could not bear to be apart from his girl at the moment. He carried her on his hip, proud of the recovery she had made from the morning and desperate to keep her safe for as long as possible. He was hopeful that Sherlock would be in a place to accept and love his little sister, hopeful that Mycroft’s lingering worry over Bunny triggering thoughts of Eurus would not be on display and interfere with Bunny’s ability to be herself.

“Remember,” Greg said when they’d reached the bottom of the staircase. “Papa and Daddy are here for you even if it takes Sherlock a little longer to get used to his sweet baby sister.”

“I’m not a baby, Papa,” Bunny said, insistent yet still in good spirits. “I’m a big girl and Sherlock better like me or I’ll tell Daddy that Sherlock stole biscuits in the middle of the night last week.” 

Greg couldn’t help but chuckle. The kid’s body language had changed, already more confident now that she’d been affirmed as the gender she was currently feeling. They had yet to fully get to know Bunny’s female side, but Greg had a feeling he was going to like this sassier, self-assured side of their littlest very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the new ficlet for this series, "Birthday Blues," on my tumblr, [Little Brothers Mine](https://little-brothers-mine.tumblr.com/). Be sure to heed the tags!


	22. Blurred Lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loves! I have a bit of a break from work, which means time to update!
> 
> I had planned for this to be the final Chapter of this story, had even outlined the way I wanted to end the storyline, but our impulsive and mischievous Sherlock had other ideas, so you'll get at least one or two more in this story before we wrap things up. 
> 
> I hope you're all well--thank you so much for sticking with me and continuing to read/comment/leave kudos even though I've had less time to update than I would like. You're all such lovely creatures, and I look forward to your thoughts about this chapter :)
> 
> xoxo

Sherlock was scribbling rather haphazardly into an old outer space coloring book while snacking on the apples and peanut butter Mycroft had made for him. He licked between his fingers where the remnants of his messy eating remained, then ducked his head down to run his tongue over a corner of the coloring book stained with a glob of peanut butter.

“Ah, none of that, now,” Mycroft said, catching Sherlock’s eye from across the kitchen and crossing the room with a wet dishcloth. “That’s dirty.”

Sherlock whined a bit as Mycroft took a crayon from his hand, but he allowed the man to scrub first one hand and then the other with the towel before turning to his rather sticky mouth. He hadn’t realized he’d gotten just as much food on him as in him. Then again, there was a reason Mycroft generally didn’t let him complete other tasks during snack time. 

“Stop, My,” Sherlock said, jerking his head away in an attempt to keep his face from the scratchy towel. But Mycroft crooked a finger beneath his chin, tickling his neck, and Sherlock relented, giggling until his face was clean. 

The moody kid he had been earlier that morning would have thrown a fit over Mycroft’s ministrations, but Sherlock no longer felt on edge or interested in causing trouble. He was comforted by being back at his big brother’s flat, and the anger of the morning had dissipated. The stressors of Baker Street and even the conversations he’d had with Mycroft regarding Red Beard had been left behind, at least for the moment, and Sherlock felt, more than anything, calm and content.

Bunny was skipping into the kitchen a moment later, followed closely by Papa, who crossed to Mycroft with a glance that Sherlock would have been able to read had he been in an older headspace. At the moment, he didn’t have much interest in interpreting the silent conversations Papa and Mycroft could have over his and Bunny’s heads, and instead held up his half-colored planet towards Bunny, who was climbing onto his knees in the chair beside him.

“Pretty,” Bunny said as he admired Sherlock’s scribbles. 

Sherlock knew he hadn’t stayed in the lines, that the outlines of the planets were barely perceptible beneath his doodling. At another time, when he was feeling less content, the fact would have made him shy and embarrassed. But Sherlock felt safe and Bunny seemed happy, and Sherlock knew he could show him the picture without fear of judgement. 

“Wanna color?” he asked. 

He had to remove his thumb to speak, which was a bit of a surprise. When had he put his thumb into his mouth, and why did he have the instinct to glance around to see if his pacifier was nearby? Maybe he was feeling a bit younger than he’d realized. 

Nevermind. He wiped the saliva onto his pant leg and pushed the pile of crayons towards Bunny, who nodded with an enthusiastic smile.

“Mycroft, Bunny needs a coloring book,” Sherlock called, interrupting a conversation Papa was having with his brother. “He wants to color, too.” 

It was Papa who took steps towards them, finding a small pile of spare coloring books where Mycroft had earlier left them on the edge of the kitchen counter and carrying them to the kitchen table. 

“Sherlock, bud,” Papa said when he was close enough to place them on the table and glancing towards Bunny, who was now staring towards the ground. 

Bunny no longer seemed as upbeat as he had a moment ago. 

“Bunny is feeling like a girl right now, kiddo,” Papa said.

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked over at his little brother. Bunny didn’t look any different than he usually did. He wasn’t wearing girl clothes, like he sometimes did at night when he put on nightgowns or his Little Mermaid nightshirt, and his mannerisms weren’t any different than what Sherlock was used to. He just seemed like regular old little Bunny.

“Does he still want to color?” Sherlock asked, a bit unclear as to what Papa expected him do with the information he’d just given to him but remembering that Mycroft wanted Sherlock to support Bunny however she was feeling. 

“She, peanut,” Papa corrected with a smile. “Why don’t you go ahead and ask her?”

Mycroft was watching Sherlock from behind the kitchen counter, a mug of tea in his hand. He nodded towards Sherlock when he caught his eye. 

Sherlock still wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about Bunny being a girl. It had all seemed okay last night, in theory. Talking abstractly last night with Mycroft about Bunny’s shifting gender had been one thing; actually being asked to interact with little girl Bunny was a different matter.

It felt strange to think of Bunny as ‘she.’ But Sherlock remembered the way Mycroft said Bunny needed to listen to his heart when it told him to be a girl in the same way Sherlock had to listen when he felt extra small. If Bunny was feeling like a girl, Sherlock had to let him be a girl. 

“Do you want to color with me?” Sherlock asked. He felt shy, almost as if he were meeting someone new. “You can color unicorns or princesses if you want.”

Bunny paused for only a moment, then nodded emphatically, grinning up at him. It might not be easy to come to terms with Bunny being his sister, but it seemed that, for the moment, all Bunny required of Sherlock was that he try his best. 

“Don’t worry,” Bunny said, reaching not for the unicorn coloring book Sherlock had expected her to take but one of Sherlock’s pirate coloring books. “I’m a nice girl.”

Bunny’s countenance changed over the course of time she and Sherlock shared crayons and made up stories for the pictures they were coloring: she sat up straighter and had a cheerful glint to her eye that was different from the usually reserved, shy looks the boy Bunny often cast towards Sherlock. Bunny even sounded different: her voice was louder and she was prone to fits of giggling, finding silliness in things Sherlock had never thought to think funny. 

He could not keep from studying his new sister, and if he’d been feeling older, he would have had multiple deductions to make about this new side of Bunny. As it was, the only thought Sherlock could focus on was that maybe Bunny’s separate genders were a bit like Sherlock’s different ages, each having their own personality and characteristics. 

“Look at my picture, Daddy,” Bunny called as Papa and Daddy crossed over towards the table with refreshed mugs of tea.

Papa and Daddy praised the beauty of Bunny’s perfectly colored picture of a pink ship on a purple ocean, then Papa ruffled Sherlock’s hair as he leaned over Sherlock’s page.

“Drawing a hurricane there, sport?” he asked with a smirk, and Bunny dissolved into another of her snorting fits of giggling. 

Sherlock whined in the back of his throat and pulled the coloring book close to his chest to hide the picture from Papa and Daddy and Bunny. He knew he hadn’t exactly been staying in the lines of his astronaut picture, but that didn’t mean Papa had to tease. It had been hard to stay in the lines today; it wasn’t like Sherlock had scribbled on purpose. 

Papa seemed to understand that he had hurt Sherlock, and stepped close to rub between his shoulder blades as Mycroft quieted Bunny’s laughter.

“Papa was just teasing, kiddo,” Papa said, voice softer as he dropped a kiss onto Sherlock’s head. “Your drawing is beautiful.”

Sherlock jerked away from Papa and turned to a fresh coloring page with a huff. He didn’t like the way Papa and Bunny seemed to be in on a joke that Sherlock hadn’t known was coming. Since when was Bunny better at something than he was?

He sat on his free hand and set about coloring more carefully. He refused to allow his thumb to wander up towards his mouth just because he was feeling sad. Now wasn’t the time to let himself be littler than Bunny; he had to be bigger if he was going to keep Bunny and Papa from ganging up on him. 

“Let’s go play,” Bunny suggested once they’d both finished pictures that Bunny insisted Mycroft hang on the fridge.

She grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and dragged him into the living room, and he was stumbling after her almost before he realized she was leading him away from the kitchen. 

He found himself blinking at Bunny as she explained that they were going to “play house,” his mouth gaping as he attempted to put into words the confusion he was feeling. This wasn’t the Bunny he knew, the Bunny who let him pick the games and was always less coordinated at coloring than he was. This wasn’t his shy and easy-going little brother, unlikely to push back against Sherlock’s ideas. 

Something had shifted out of place. 

This version of Bunny had her own opinions and ideas, was excited by the prospect of sharing them loudly and of taking things into her own hands in order to see them come to fruition. This version of Bunny wasn’t about to let others call all the shots, and Sherlock realized with a jolt of cold fear that he was no longer in control. 

“I’ll be the Mama and you’ll be the baby,” Bunny said as she dug through the costume bin to choose pieces of clothing which she pushed into Sherlock’s arms. 

He felt unmoored. His confusion and loss of dominant status combined with the internal fight against his slipping headspace was a bit too much to take, and all he could feel was frustration, hot and solid in his chest. 

“I don’t want to play a girl’s game with you!” he said all at once, throwing the clothes back towards Bunny as he shouted. “I don’t like girls and I don’t like you when you’re not normal!”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft called in a warning as he stood from his spot next to Papa at the kitchen table, who had chimed in with his own disappointed, “not okay, kid.” 

Sherlock knew he’d disappointed Mycroft and Papa. They’d had the conversations before, had discussed the fact that there were no such things as girls’ games or boys’ games in the same way they’d discussed that colors were simply colors and anyone could wear whatever clothing they wanted to. They’d explained that there was nothing abnormal about following what was in your heart and acting accordingly. Sherlock supposed it was true, and if Bunny hadn’t have been acting so differently or if Mycroft and Papa hadn’t seemed to have spent all of their attention on Bunny that morning, maybe he would have felt less squirmy about the prospect of having to play house with this new version of Bunny. 

As it was, he didn’t have the energy to care that he was being insensitive. All he knew was that he had tried to be accepting of Bunny but had only become confused. All he knew was that she had teased him and was telling him what to do, and that he didn’t feel big enough to understand what that meant. 

He had to get away from Mycroft and Papa’s disappointed looks and Bunny’s whimpering and sniffling before he slipped down to an age where he was too young to have power over anything at all. He ran from the living room as his own tears began, taking the stairs two at a time in his haste to escape the others. He retreated into his room, pulling the door shut and throwing himself onto his bed, face pressed into his arms as he cried. 

It wasn’t fair. Mycroft and Papa hadn’t told him that girl Bunny would be different from boy Bunny. They hadn’t explained that there was more to accepting girl Bunny than just being nice and not teasing her if she wanted to wear sparkly clothes or play with mermaids. 

He burrowed down beneath the comforter on his bed and, at long last, let his thumb slip into his mouth as he curled his legs up towards his chest. He didn’t have the strength to force himself to be a bigger boy, anymore. He had disappointed Mycroft and Papa and had hurt Bunny’s feelings probably as much as he had when he’d torn up her paper dolls at the lake house, maybe even more. He’d never wanted to be mean like that again, had promised himself he wouldn’t hurt like that again. But now he’d gone and done exactly that, acting without thinking. 

He wouldn’t be surprised if Bunny didn’t talk to him ever again.

The thought gave him pause, and he sucked in a breath as he began contemplating what would happen if Bunny couldn’t forgive him. The prospect sent him into a panic. He loved Bunny; he always had. He didn’t want this new version of Bunny to change everything he had come to know, but he certainly hadn’t planned to make her sad again or to make her question who she was like he had at the lake house. Mycroft was always saying he had to think before he acted, and now Sherlock would pay for his stupid impulsivity if Bunny didn't accept his apologies. 

A voice in the back of his mind told him he was overtired and overreacting after a nearly sleepless night, that he was jumping to conclusions and that all would be set right again after some atonement. But Sherlock was not in a position to accept rational mindsets at the moment, and allowed the sudden possibility of ageplaying without Bunny to bring about loud, guttural sobs which made his throat ache. His mind was swarming with questions: What if Bunny didn’t want to play with him anymore? What if Papa and Mycroft decided Sherlock couldn’t be Bunny’s brother now that he’d been so rude and mean? What if they didn’t let him be little anymore? 

Sherlock pulled the blankets over his head and dissolved into hitching sobs, nose running. 

The lines establishing the boundaries of their ageplay world had become, suddenly as squiggly and shadowed as the pictures in the coloring book he’d earlier been drawing in. He was convinced he had, with one statement of rejection, blurred what they had come to understand and know. He'd made everything ugly and formless, coloring widely outside of the lines. This time, however, Bunny and Papa were not be giggling. 


	23. Finding a Balance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the final chapter of this story! It's been an interesting one, and certainly kept moving to new and unexpected places, but it was fun to explore Bunny's feminine side and the reaction of each other family member in turn.
> 
> Thanks so much for your continued love for this world and your lovely comments/kudos! If you've gained as much enjoyment from this world as a cup of coffee and would like to support in another way, head on over to my tumblr [Little Brothers Mine](https://little-brothers-mine.tumblr.com/) to click a certain button of appreciation <3\. A new one-shot should hopefully be posted there in the next few days.
> 
> I'm looking forward to the next story in this series, and can't wait to get started!

Bunny had been gathered up in Daddy’s arms and comforted as she cried over the nasty words from Sherlock, Papa stroking her back as Daddy shushed her and told her it would all be okay. She felt insecure and pained and hesitant to remain a little girl, but it had been a hard few days, and it felt like a lot of work to shift into being a boy at the moment. 

Even if she did have the energy to fight her current gender identity, Papa and Daddy were cuddling her between them and calling her their good, sweet little girl. They kept assuring her that there was nothing abnormal about her whatsoever. It took quite some time, but their words eventually calmed her, settling her firmly into her current self, and Bunny’s emotions began to regulate. 

“Didn’t mean to make Sherlock mad,” she mumbled, knuckling at wet eyes.

“Hey, now,” Papa said, voice serious. “None of that. This is not about anything you did, love bug. Sherlock is the one in the wrong, here.” 

“But now he won’t want to play with me, anymore,” Bunny sniffled, a fresh onset of tears threatening.

“Sherlock will come around, ladybug,” Daddy said. “He said some nasty, hurtful words, but he loves you very much. He may need a bit more time to process this new change, and his actions were wrong in every way. But he would never intentionally hurt you.” 

Bunny knew Daddy was right, had long since come to understand that Sherlock’s outbursts were more often than not spurred on not by his feelings towards others but by his doubts concerning himself. Bunny had acted similarly not long ago, mistreating Sherlock and acting out against Daddy because she had not been able to tell them she wanted to be a girl. If Sherlock was mean to Bunny, it was likely only because he, too, had been dealing with confusing, difficult thoughts. 

And then Bunny was feeling less like Bunny and more like John, suddenly fiercely protective of his boyfriend and desperate to assure the younger version of Sherlock that he understood how hard it could be to process while in headspace. Hell, it was hard enough to process emotion as an adult, let alone while in the mindset of a child. 

John cleared his throat and blinked into himself, wiping his face in the crook of his elbow and scooting forward onto the edge of the couch, separating himself a bit from Mycroft and Greg’s touch. He took a moment to ground himself, then stood.

“I’d like to go talk to him,” he said, and despite the fact that he was dressed in an oversized jumper and silver-star leggings covering a pull-up, he was fully adult.

Greg and Mycroft stared up at him and then shared a look between themselves, Mycroft sighing. 

“I keep telling you you aren’t letting yourself go deep enough into headspace,” Mycroft said, shaking his head up at John as he acknowledged his shift in mindset. “Your adult self shouldn’t be this close to the surface all the time.”

“Not the time for a lecture, Myc,” Greg said with a smirk, reaching to rub the man’s shoulder. He smiled at John and quirked his head towards the staircase. “Let us know if you need backup, kiddo,” he said. 

John nodded, not minding Greg’s pet name despite the fact that he was aged up; Greg had always been rather paternal when it came to John and Sherlock. They shared an amused grin over Mycroft’s current breed of mother-henning before John left the living room and made his way to Sherlock’s bedroom. 

He knocked lightly on the boy’s closed bedroom door, hearing the boy’s sobbing and wanting to give him a bit of time to get himself together. 

“Go away!” Sherlock called, voice garbled. “Leave me alone!”

“Sherlock, bud?” John called. “It’s John. Can I come in?”

There was a break in the sobbing after what might have been a shocked gasp, silence taking over for long enough that John began to think he may be forced to let himself in unwelcomed. But just as he raised a fist to knock once more, the door opened, and a chagrined, tear-stained Sherlock stood before him.

“Hey, love,” John said, heart wrenching as he took in the state of the boy: hair mussed and eyes red-rimmed from crying. “Is it alright if I talk to you for a minute?”

The boy seemed to have lost his ability to speak, but he nodded, fingers in his mouth, and stepped back to give John space to step into the room. 

“Thanks, ‘Lockie,” he said, keeping his voice as warm and easy-going as possible.

He crossed to the bed and took a seat on the end, then glanced over to Sherlock, who was clearly unsure of himself and still standing by the doorway. It was clear an aged-up John was the last person he had expected to be entering his room after his outburst.

John patted the bed next to him.

“Would you like to come sit and talk for a minute?” he asked, and Sherlock, chewing on his fingers with his head ducked, nodded before crossing to him and taking a seat. 

“I wanted to come to talk to you because I know it’s been a pretty tough day for you, buddy,” John began. “I know what it’s like to have lots of confusing thoughts going through your mind when something new happens, and I know that sometimes we end up saying or doing things we don’t mean when we get frustrated with those thoughts.” 

“Yeah,” Sherlock said, voice barely above a whisper.

John could see that the boy was listening to what he had to say, and he hoped that would remain the case when he moved from empathy to chastising. It was true he had a sense of where Sherlock’s tantrum had come from, but that didn’t mean the words hadn’t been harmful and painful on multiple levels, to both his young and adult self. 

“But the words you used today were unfair and very painful,” he said. 

He found it far easier to express himself to an aged-down Sherlock than he would have had they been talking man to man. There was an ease of purpose knowing he needed to help little Sherlock understand right from wrong, an ease that was harder to find when plagued with questions over whether it was his place or his right to instruct adult Sherlock.

“Instead of asking questions or telling someone you were feeling overwhelmed, you took out your frustration on others, and that’s never okay.”

Sherlock’s face crumpled and his mouth opened in a low, guttural wail.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stretching the vowels in a whine. “I didn’t mean to hurt Bunny.”

John reached out to take Sherlock’s hand in his own. He did not shush him or tell him it would be okay, not wanting to coddle the boy when he needed to learn a lesson. However, he let the boy know he was there for him by circling his thumb along the back of Sherlock’s hand as he waited for him to regain a sense of rational thought.

“Is Bunny okay?” Sherlock asked, sniffling, when he’d found his words again.

John could not help but chuckle at the boy’s tendency to view Bunny as an entirely separate entity from his adult self. If he’d ever had doubts that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to separate their ageplay life from their everyday lives, they had long since been put to rest. 

“Bunny’s not entirely okay, no,” he said, continuing to practice transparency. “She will be, but I think she has some questions that she needs answered before she can feel safe again.”

Sherlock nodded, eyes wide. The boy seemed to be at his baseline age of seven or eight at the moment, for which John was grateful. It was always tough to process emotional resonance with a very young Sherlock. 

“Can I talk to her?” he asked, clearly eager to set things right. “I don’t want her to be sad and never play with me again.” 

He found the boy’s earnestness rather endearing. That said, John was not in a position to immediately transition back down in headspace. Mycroft may be perpetually nagging him for his ability to shift out of headspace far too quickly, but it had never been said that John shifted too quickly _into_ headspace. Besides, he didn’t he think it best that he speak to Sherlock while young without being in the presence of Mycroft or Greg.

“Why don’t you tell me what you want to say to her, and I’ll pass along the message, okay?” John asked. 

Sherlock nodded, then drew his legs up beneath him on the bed as he turned to face John. 

“I want to tell her I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. “I want to tell her she can be a girl whenever she wants to.”

John nodded.

“Good boy,” he said, and Sherlock looked as if he were on the verge of smiling. “Can you explain why you got angry today and said such mean words?”

Any trace of contentment that may have been emerging on Sherlock’s face dissipated with the reminder of his labelling Bunny abnormal, and the boy’s face fell once more. 

“I don’t know,” he said, but John raised his eyebrows slightly, worldessly asking the boy to try harder.

“Bunny was being bossy,” Sherlock said, unable to keep a bit of defensiveness from his tone. “She’s not...I mean, _he’s_ not usually like that.”

John thought he understood. He hadn’t given it a whole lot of thought, but he supposed there were differences between his little girl side and his little boy. 

“So you felt confused because Bunny was acting differently then when he was a boy?” John clarified.

Sherlock nodded. 

“Bunny was better at coloring and Papa and Bunny laughed at my colors and Daddy and Papa were giving Bunny all the attention and then Bunny got to choose the game and I wanted to,” the boy said in a litany of complaints, his mouth turning down at the corners as he remembered the string of events which had upset him. 

The impetus for Sherlock’s outburst suddenly became more than clear. The boy was used to the shy, reserved little boy Bunny who worshipped Sherlock and allowed him to set all the rules of their ageplay world. Little girl Bunny had showed up, confident and self-assured on a day Sherlock was feeling a bit younger than usual, and had gone about shifting their roles. 

“Sherlock, what did you mean when you said you didn’t like Bunny when she wasn’t “normal”? John asked.

“I didn’t like that she wasn’t letting me be better and letting me choose the games like usual,” he said.

John could not help but breathe a sigh of relief.

“You have to be very careful with your choice of words, buddy,” he said, watching to make sure Sherlock kept eye-contact. “When you said you didn’t like Bunny when she wasn’t normal, you had just said you didn’t like girls. That made Bunny and Daddy and Papa think that you were calling Bunny abnormal for wanting to be a girl, which is a very mean thing to say. Do you understand why that hurt Bunny?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he nodded his head slowly, as if the gravity of his words had just been explained to him for the first time.

“Can you tell Bunny I don’t want her to stop being a girl?” he asked. “Can you tell her I want her to be what she feels and not give in to the bad thoughts that tell her to stay a boy, but I want her to be a quiet girl because I like quiet girls better?”

John chuckled, and reached out to cup Sherlock’s cheek. At least the boy was being honest and expressing his feelings. John could not help but be bolstered in his self-confident little girl side as Sherlock’s biases against not being the alpha were laid out. A little challenge might be good for Sherlock, may allow him to realize that he was not always going to be in charge. 

“It doesn’t work that way, love,” John said. “If you love Bunny, you have to accept her for who she is, no matter what.”

“So I gotta let her tell me what to do?” Sherlock asked, shocked. 

“Not exactly,” John said with a smile. “You need to listen to her ideas and respect her opinions, but what do you think you could do if you don’t want to do what Bunny wants to do?” 

Sherlock’s head was ducked as he traced the outlines of the treasure map on his duvet cover, but John could tell that he was processing, and thinking how to answer the question posed to him. 

“Ask her to play something else?” Sherlock suggested after a moment.

John smiled down at the boy and nodded.

“Exactly, smart boy.”

He could not help but hear Mycroft’s voice in the back of his mind telling little boy Bunny to take his own advice and stand up for himself against the more domineering little Sherlock, but John ignored it. Today had been the day he’d finally felt comfortable enough to be his true little girl self around Sherlock. There were only so many personal successes he could reach in one day. 

“Do you think you owe Bunny an apology for saying you don’t like girls?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Sherlock said. “Tell Bunny I didn’t really mean that, okay? Mycroft says I make unfounded generalizations when faced with change.”

The juxtaposition of Sherlock’s currently childish voice struggling to parrot back Mycroft’s heightened language was rather adorable, and John could not help but pull the boy in for a hug at long last, chuckling to himself that Sherlock was too cute for his own good. 

“Okay, silly boy,” John said, reaching to tickle Sherlock’s sides and causing the boy to wriggle about his lap as he dissolved into giggles. “I’ll tell her.”

The challenges were not over, and Sherlock certainly would not learn to think before he spoke or to more cognizantly trace chains of events before they led to frustrated outbursts in the course of one conversation, but John was convinced there had been some progress made. If nothing else, he was relieved his female self was no longer stifled beneath layers of uncertainty and fear, relieved he felt free to act upon his feelings and personalities.

John and Sherlock settled back against the headboard with a stack of Sherlock-approved children’s books, and, over the course of the next forty-five minutes, John read and Sherlock pointed out details on each page that he believed told an entirely different story, weaving tales of underhanded plots and secrets hidden. 

And when John, snuggled up with Sherlock, happened to relax enough to find himself giving back into his Bunny headspace, he didn’t fight the impulse, scurrying down under the covers when Sherlock suggested they hide out like the bandits in the story and adding on to Sherlock’s made-up stories with plotlines of her own. The actual text of each storybook was left unread as they turned through page after page embellished by their own imaginations, snorting in laughter until Daddy and Papa found them, made them use the potty and wash their hands, and sat them all down for lunch as a family, the kids insisting that Willa the rabbit and Dimitri the dinosaur get plates of their own and already negotiating with Papa and Daddy over the number of bites of green beans they would have to eat in order for Papa to build them a blanket fort and Daddy to let them watch a movie. 

Five big bites, it turned out, but Bunny ate seven, wanting to make her Daddy and Papa happy and knowing with a bit of giddy satisfaction that Sherlock would match her in bites, eager to keep up with his cheeky little sister.


End file.
